


frightened (by the crowd)

by wildforce71



Series: Powers 'Verse [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I R Ded, but here it is at last, probably less sexy times though, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 52,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25170574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildforce71/pseuds/wildforce71
Summary: Have you forgotten how put down we are? I am frightened by the crowd; for we are getting much too loud; and they'll kill us if we go too far...
Relationships: d'Artagnan/Constance Bonacieux
Series: Powers 'Verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/203009
Comments: 75
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Guys. Guys. GUYS.
> 
> Season Three killed me.
> 
> I'm not even joking. I have been trying for literal years to write this. I started, stopped, tried again, rewrote...nothing worked, until I realised that I couldn't follow the season as we were given it, that it just wasn't possible.
> 
> So this is...inspired by Season Three. More or less. You'll see a lot of the same characters, a lot of the same situations, but not necessarily the way you expect to see them. Not everyone ends up in the same place they did on the show. But I hope you'll think they end up in the right place.
> 
> Also, takingoffmyshoes is amazing, so is SailorSol, so is fandomlver. This would not have come to fruition without them.
> 
> (Also also, don't kill me for certain decisions. Things will make sense, I promise.)

For a moment, Athos missed Aramis so fiercely he couldn’t breathe.

He was used to it by now. Four years since the last time they’d seen each other, it didn’t happen nearly as often as it once had; but every once in a while it hit him again, just as strongly as before. He ate breakfast with Porthos and d’Artagnan, and he missed Aramis. He watched the young boys train, and he missed Aramis. d’Artagnan got himself injured, and he _really_ missed Aramis.

“It’s nothing,” d’Artagnan insisted for the third time. “The blast just knocked me off balance. I’m fine.”

Porthos reached out and poked him lightly in the shoulder. d’Artagnan swayed, one hand moving towards his head before he caught his balance again. “Not fair,” he said with a scowl.

“That’s what happens when you charge a _cannon,”_ Porthos pointed out unfeelingly. “It’s your own fault, really.”

“Yes, how dare I try to stop the attack that was killing all our men,” d’Artagnan agreed dryly. “Selfish of me, if we’re being honest.”

Athos caught Porthos’ eye, and he subsided. The war had changed all of them, but there were times he barely recognised d’Artagnan anymore. “You should get some rest. You took a hard blow.”

“We have a mission.”

“The mission will wait until you can walk a straight line.”

“Do you want to go back to Paris and tell Feron and Louis that we took Spanish prisoners and then let them escape because I fell over? We’ll hang. And that’s not even mentioning what Treville will do to us.”

Porthos sighed, looking at Athos. “I hate it when he’s right about things. It seems all unnatural.”

“We’re fortunate it doesn’t happen more often,” Athos agreed mildly. “Go and tell the men what we’re doing. I’ll make sure he at least eats something before we go. We should make the camp in a day or two.” Porthos nodded, hurrying off, and Athos turned to d’Artagnan. “You could have allowed Porthos to take out the cannon, you know. It would have been much safer for him.”

d’Artagnan shrugged. “I didn’t think of it. I’m not used to thinking of it anymore.”

That was a whole other issue, and one neither Athos nor Porthos could get him to talk about despite their best efforts. He didn’t try this time. “There’s bread, if the rats left any, or dried meat, which I know they left.”

“They left it because it’s inedible.”

“Bread or meat, d’Artagnan?”

d’Artagnan sighed, and took the bread, and started packing for a short trip. Athos watched him, half aware of Porthos talking to the men around the nearby fire, and missed Aramis so fiercely he couldn’t breathe. 

Feron, with Louis’ blessing, had established a series of camps for prisoners of war. Porthos had heard rumours, mutterings that Feron was imprisoning anyone he felt like, giving the Red Guard the run of them – but there were always rumours, and he’d mostly ignored them. The Musketeers hadn’t been allowed off the lines to escort the prisoners before, but their commanding General was missing and Athos was taking advantage to get them away from the fighting for a little while. He’d picked three others who were struggling for the trip to escort their four prisoners. It wasn’t expected to take long, but it would be better than nothing.

The prisoners were quiet and obedient as they traveled. Porthos watched as, one by one, the others relaxed: Athos was calmer without so many people to worry about, and the other three were joking and laughing by the second day. Only d’Artagnan didn’t seem at all affected by their distance from the fighting.

They neared the camp in the afternoon of the second day. Athos halted the group and took Porthos with him to greet the gate guards, leaving the others to guard the prisoners.

“Miserable place,” Porthos noted as they drew closer. Trees had been roughly hewn down to clear a long, wide space, and the trunks used to make fences. Through the gaps, Porthos could see roughly thrown together shelters and dispirited people wandering around. The ground was muddy and everything was coated in it.

“It’s a prison camp, not a palace,” Athos reminded him. “What were you expecting?”

“Something a little less ‘Court of Miracles.’”

Athos glanced at him but didn’t comment. They reached the gates and he turned his attention to the two Red Guards. “I need to see your camp commander.”

“Commander’s busy. What’s it about?”

“We have some prisoners to hand into his care.”

The guard looked past them at the group. “Spanish?”

“Are you keeping Frenchmen here?”

“We keep whoever my lord Feron tells us to keep. Bring them up here. We’ll process them.”

“These are Spanish officials, they must be kept safe. We may be able to ransom them for some of our men,” Athos warned him.

“Everyone gets the same treatment,” he said, sounding supremely bored. “If your Spanish know how to play the game, they’ll be fine.”

Athos eyed him for a long moment, then turned to Porthos. “Go and bring them up here. Just you and d’Artagnan.”

“We can’t leave them here, Athos,” Porthos protested.

“We have no choice.” Lowering his voice, he added, “We’ll return to Paris and petition Treville directly, but we can’t bring them there. Feron will be able to shut the regiment down if we bring Spanish prisoners into the city without orders. We’ll just have to hope they survive that long.”

Porthos grimaced, but he turned away, collected d’Artagnan and the prisoners, and brought them back to the gate. The guard made a show of collecting their information before taking manacles from a crate and tossing them to Porthos. “Get them chained up.”

“So you can move them three feet through the gate?”

“The gate doesn’t open until they're chained up.”

He looked questioningly at Athos, who nodded glumly. “They ain’t violent,” he said, turning to the first. The manacles were old and clogged with dirt; he had to force them closed, wincing as he did so.

“I’m glad I have your assurance,” the guard drawled, tugging on the chains to test them.

The other guards were busy making sure no one was near the gate on the inside. Once it was clear, they unlocked and dragged the gates open, and the Musketeers escorted the prisoners inside. The head guard led them to the only stone building; once inside, they found it was mostly guards’ barracks and partly an office.

“What’s your name?” Athos asked the guard, currently rummaging in a stack of paperwork.

“Marcheaux, captain in the Red Guard.” He came back with some paper. “Sign here.”

Athos looked at it. “It’s blank.”

“I’ll fill it in later.”

“You expect me to sign it blind?”

Marcheaux showed his teeth in what might have charitably been called a smile. “I don’t want to delay you. Paperwork takes such a long time.”

“Why don’t I have Porthos help you? His writing is quite legible.”

Marcheaux scowled again. “My writing is not the issue, Captain.”

“Then stop wasting time and let’s get going. We have a battle to return to.”

Marcheaux attempted to stare him down, and lasted a very credible seven seconds before blinking and looking away. “Have your men take them to Barracks three. That’s the prisoners’ area.”

“The whole camp is supposed to be ‘the prisoners’ area’,” Porthos protested. “And what about the chains?”

“One of my men will be around.”

Porthos looked at Athos again. He tilted his head and Porthos sighed, turning to lead the others away.

The barracks were messily laid out and half falling down. They found number three after asking the fourth guard; the first three sent them in completely different directions, and Porthos was starting to wonder if anyone actually knew where anything was or if they just renamed everything any time anyone asked. There were only two empty bunks, but the prisoners seemed resigned, sitting together to wait to be unchained.

“This is unbelievable,” d’Artagnan said as they left the barracks again. “I wouldn’t house our pigs somewhere like this.”

“I was just thinking it reminds me of home.”

“The Court was nothing like this.”

“Not the bits you saw, maybe,” Porthos murmured, but he let it drop. “These aren’t Frenchmen. The guards think they can do anything they want. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re encouraging the other prisoners to attack them.” 

“Not Frenchmen. Aren’t they? Have you heard any Spanish spoken?”

Porthos hesitated, looking around. The inmates were keeping their distance, so he hadn’t really noticed what they were saying. “Have you heard French?”

“I’m fairly sure.”

“You think Feron is holding Frenchmen?”

“I think we should take a little walk around and see what we find.”

Porthos nodded. “Marcheaux did say the paperwork might take a while.”

“And with the way this place is laid out," d'Artagnan added, "who could blame us if we got a little lost?”

Porthos snorted. “Don’t push it. Let’s go.”

Neither of them noticed the monk standing on the path some distance back, staring after them.

They split up after a while, wandering around the badly laid out streets. The whole camp was knee deep in mud and other, filthier things, and none of the buildings seemed to be entirely constructed, balanced precariously against each other. 

Although he was looking around, d’Artagnan was paying more attention to the monk that was following him. He couldn’t see a face; the hood was up, shading him completely. He wasn’t surprised to see a monk here, but he was a little surprised to be trailed by one.

He ducked behind a building, leaning against the wall to wait. It shifted perceptibly behind him and he froze, ready to move if it came down. It held, though, and he watched as the monk walked past, scanning the path ahead.

d’Artagnan stepped warily away from the building, back onto the path. “I know I’m interesting, but am I really worth following around a place like this?”

The monk froze, and d’Artagnan took a couple of steps closer. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

He turned, pushing down his hood. d’Artagnan blinked a couple of times.

Aramis watched him steadily. “I thought you’d recognised me.”

“Through your hood? I’m good, but not that good.”

Aramis frowned. “No, I…”

“What are you doing here?” d’Artagnan asked, turning to start back towards the main barracks.

“Spanish-speaking priests are few and far between. I’m needed to minister to the prisoners here.”

“Can you do that now?” He wasn’t really interested, but it would keep Aramis distracted until they got back to Athos.

“Enough. d’Artagnan…”

“Are they keeping Frenchmen here?”

“French men?” Aramis repeated.

“This is a lot of people to be prisoners.”

“French _men?”_ Aramis stopped in the middle of the path. d’Artagnan paused, looking back at him. “Are you not looking at all?”

“Looking at what?”

Aramis gestured wordlessly around them, and d’Artagnan shrugged. “It’s a lot of people.” It wasn’t a lie, he told himself fiercely. Aramis would take it one way, it just wouldn’t be the way d’Artagnan meant it. But it would keep him quiet for now. “Let’s find Athos, I’m sure he’ll have some questions for you.” He tried to smile. “It really is good to see you. I’m sorry I haven’t… I’m surprised, that’s all.”

Aramis softened, as d’Artagnan had known he would. “Of course this is difficult for you. I should have thought.”

“How is it for you? Are there many injured?” He started towards the main barracks again.

“Not many. A lot of hungry people, but that doesn’t hurt me quite the same way.”

“That’s something, at least.”

They reached the barracks, where Athos was talking to Marcheaux. If he was surprised to see Aramis, he didn’t show it, just stepped away from Marcheaux to join them.

“How are you enjoying your prayer and contemplation?” he asked dryly.

“Right now I’d very much like to contemplate someone’s head into a wall. What’s happening?”

“We’re leaving some Spanish prisoners. I had some concern when I saw this place, so we’re investigating. Quietly. What can you tell me?”

Aramis studied them both for a moment before turning on his heel. “Come with me.”

The guards never bothered to stop him anymore. Aramis blessed them as he passed anyway. It didn’t mean anything, as he hadn’t been ordained yet, but it seemed to give them pause whenever they thought about trying anything.

Athos and d’Artagnan stayed close behind him, not trying to question him. He assumed Porthos was around somewhere, but he didn’t bother asking. Either he was hiding and shouldn’t have attention drawn to him, or he was openly somewhere and they’d meet up in a while.

He slowed as they neared the fence into the second part of the compound. “Stay silent,” he murmured to them, nodding to the guards. “These people don’t trust authority.”

The guards opened the gate and Aramis led them through. No one was nearby; they tried to avoid the area around the gate as much as possible, he knew. He headed for one of the barracks, knocking politely.

Sylvie came to the door, starting to smile before she registered the others behind him. “What’s this?”

“Friends of mine. May we come in?”

“Rather you didn’t. Elodie’s having a day.” She folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe.

Aramis nodded. “Very well. My friends have some questions about the camp, I hoped you might help them.”

“Oh? Are we the entertainment now?”

Athos took a step forward. “We are King’s Musketeers, mademoiselle—”

She looked him up and down before turning back to Aramis, waiting for his nod to tell Athos. “Sylvie.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “We understood that the prisoners here were all Spanish.”

“Did you? Who told you that?”

“Be nice, Sylvie,” Aramis murmured.

“I’m all out of nice,” she retorted, but she did soften a little. “Feron sends anyone he wants here. He says he’s keeping people with Abilities here, because they might fight for Spain otherwise.”

d’Artagnan stirred. “He thinks the best way to keep them on France’s side is to keep them _here?”_

“No one ever said he was smart.”

“And is he?” Athos asked. Sylvie raised an eyebrow, and he clarified, “Keeping people with Abilities here.”

“Think I’d tell you?”

“Fair,” he allowed, looking at Aramis.

“I’ve seen no evidence of Abilities,” Aramis said carefully.

“Does Louis know about this?” d’Artagnan asked Sylvie.

“How would I know?”

“You’re right, of course. My apologies.”

“My guess would be he knows about the camp and doesn’t care for the details,” Aramis said. “Sylvie, thank you.”

“Come back soon. Elodie settles best with your help.”

“You have my word.” He took a step back and Sylvie vanished back into the barracks.

“How long has this been happening?” Athos asked.

“The camp has been running for a little more than two years now,” Aramis said tiredly, turning to head back to the main gate. “I’ve sent letters to Treville. He tells me he’s doing his best. But Feron’s powers allow him to do this.”

Athos nodded. “d’Artagnan, go ahead and send the others back to the line. We’ll ride to Paris and report to Treville. Our testimony in person may make a difference.”

d’Artagnan nodded, moving ahead as they neared the gate, and Athos turned to Aramis. “Are you staying here?”

“These people need a lot of help,” Aramis didn’t quite answer.

“Your testimony may help get this place closed down.”

“Do you think so?”

“What he means is,” Porthos said from just behind his shoulder, “come back with us.” Aramis tried to hide his jump; he wasn’t used to Porthos anymore. He couldn’t tell if he was successful, but Porthos took a step away.

“Was I unclear?” Athos asked dryly.

“I have work here,” he reminded them, but he knew it wasn't convincing. “Is d’Artagnan all right?”

He hadn’t meant anything by it, but the looks the other two exchanged had him immediately on edge. “Why do you ask?” Athos asked, looking back at him.

“He seemed... not himself.”

Porthos snorted. “He went to war, Aramis. He’s been fighting the last four years, killing for France. What did you expect?”

“Is he hurt?” He hadn’t sensed anything, but…

“He went to war,” Athos echoed. “Are you coming? We’re leaving now.” And they both turned and walked away without waiting for his answer.

Aramis stood for a moment, undecided. Then he hurried after them. If he could change things here, he had to.


	2. Chapter 2

They rode hard for most of that day, and when they stopped Athos took d’Artagnan into the trees to set a perimeter. Aramis set up as much of the camp as he could – it was good to walk around after the day in the saddle – but they still weren’t back when he was finished. He glanced at Porthos, who was carefully cleaning and sorting his weapons.

He’d thought about it, and decided to come at things from a different angle this time. “d’Artagnan is taking security very seriously,” he said quietly, taking a cloth and Porthos’ second pistol and starting to clean it. Four years away, but his fingers hadn’t forgotten this; they moved quickly and easily over the weapon, cleaning and readying it.

Porthos just grunted.

“I almost thought he didn’t recognise me,” Aramis pressed. “Foolish, of course. He must have sensed me long before he saw me.”

“He doesn’t do that anymore,” Porthos said flatly.

Aramis stared at him, hands still moving as he finished cleaning the barrel. “Doesn’t do what?”

“Sense.”

Now his hands stilled as he tried to understand. “He can’t just stop, Porthos, any more than you could stop breathing.”

“He went to war,” Porthos said, an eerie echo of his earlier words.

“I know that.”

“How did you think that would go for an empath?”

“I wish you’d all stop making this my fault,” Aramis said, frustrated. “I thought you understood my reasons for staying in the monastery. And even if I’d returned to the regiment, I couldn’t have stopped d’Artagnan from going to war.”

“You ain’t the point.”

“Then stop making me the point and tell me what’s happened to d’Artagnan.”

“He went to war,” Porthos said again, and his tone made it clear that was all Aramis was getting. He pushed to his feet, took his pistol back and went to check the rabbit snares, though they’d barely been out ten minutes and it was the wrong time of day for rabbits.

Aramis sighed and went to settle on his bedroll, trying to decide if he should keep pushing things or leave the others alone. They might tell him, eventually. And he had left them, after all. He had no right to demand to know what had happened in their years apart.

When Athos and d’Artagnan returned, d’Artagnan loudly announced his intent to take the early morning watch, went to his bedroll, and lay down with his back to them. Porthos settled beside him, working on his weapons again. The unspoken message was clear, and Aramis vacated his roll and sat beside Athos instead. “Am I permitted to ask?" he said softly.

“You may ask anything you wish. I will answer what I can. But as you may recall, my grasp of Mental Abilities has never been...strong.”

“I do recall that,” Aramis muttered, “but anything is better than nothing.”

“You think so now…”

Aramis thought for a moment, trying to decide where to begin. “You and Porthos both say ‘he went to war’ as though that explains it.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Not in the slightest. I can imagine it wasn’t easy for him…”

“Can you?” Athos was clearly trying not to sound accusatory.

Aramis was silent, and after a moment Athos went on. “The first year was...bad, but bearable, more or less. d’Artagnan went regularly back to Paris, carrying messages and supplies. Treville arranged it and most of the other officials looked the other way because of his marriage.”

“And he went to the Court, I assume?”

“I assume so. He told me he had things under control. I believed him.”

Aramis nodded. “And after that?”

“After that, Feron came to power. He said it was a waste of Musketeers, carrying messages back and forth, and he didn’t trust their integrity anyway. He sent his own men, and d’Artagnan was no longer permitted to leave the front, under penalty of treason. Not just d’Artagnan, any of the Musketeers, but it affected him most of all. We all saw it.”

“That was three years ago?”

“Yes.” Athos didn’t elaborate. “It didn’t start to really bother him for some time, but then it became clear that he was struggling. He and Porthos were already burdened as they were determined to keep me out of the fighting—”

“Why?”

“Because there were other fighters with us, other regiments. There were three or four Musketeers kept from the fighting, for one reason or another. d’Artagnan and Porthos did the work of three men to protect me.”

“It’s traditional in the trenches to look the other way—”

“We went to replace a small force who were meant to be holding a village along our supply line.” Athos’ voice was even. “We discovered that the reason they weren’t holding it was because one of the fighters had done something that the villagers interpreted as an Ability. They plied the fighters with drugged wine, slit their throats while they slept, and burned the bodies. And then demanded a new force to protect them. A more...righteous one.”

Aramis lowered his head. “I see.”

“There are many other examples of the same.”

“And he was unable to leave the fighting. The suffering.”

“He came very close to slipping into the darkness more than once. And then one day – it’s more than a year ago now, but I can’t be more precise than that – he simply seemed to stop sensing. There was no more struggle, no more suffering. I was glad of that much and did not see the dangers. Porthos did; he did his best, but d’Artagnan simply refused to discuss it, and as time went on he seemed almost to forget he’d ever had an Ability. He barely remembers that we do.”

“It’s not good for him,” Aramis murmured. “He’s damaging himself.”

“He’s alive.”

“Alive, yes, but not himself.”

“We are none of us ourselves, Aramis. War does that to a man. You know that.” He looked back at the fire, shaking his head slightly. “We were not made for war.”

“No. Abilities do seem to be designed more for peace, don’t they.”

“Most of them, at least.”

“So you have not seen Paris in some time?” Aramis asked. “Who exactly is this Feron?”

“Louis’ half brother. Louis made him a Marquis and gave him governorship of Paris. He runs the Red Guard as his private army and Paris as his fiefdom. Treville’s messages are...not encouraging, and those are only the ones that get through.”

“I don’t think I’d heard of him before I went to the camp.”

“Who can keep track of Louis’ siblings,” Athos said dismissively. “Feron is older, a product of Louis’ father and one of Marie’s ladies, I understand. Perhaps even Margaret’s; I’m not clear on his parentage.”

“It hardly matters.”

“No. The important thing is that Louis trusts him absolutely. For all intents and purposes Feron rules France, much as Richelieu did.”

“How is he likely to react to your return?”

“Unfavourably. Treville keeps the garrison running, but it’s staffed with newly recruited cadets and those few Musketeers too old or injured to be sent to the front; no threat to Feron. We would be rather different.”

“Hated and feared by the man running Paris. How strange and different.”

“Yes, we do seem to keep returning to the same place.”

“Hopefully this will be the last time.”

“We can hope,” Athos agreed, looking back at the fire again. “Aramis, do you think you can help d’Artagnan?”

“I can try. He may be more willing to open up to me. Our Abilities are not so far apart.”

“I hope he is. We have tried, but…”

“Gascon stubbornness. I’ll do what I can.”

“I’m sure it will be enough.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll check the snares. Get some rest if you can. The next few days are not likely to be fun.”

Aramis wasn’t paying much attention as he followed Treville through the rooms of the palace. Athos was speedily reporting on the state of the war, Porthos filling in information where he felt it needed. Aramis couldn’t add anything to that discussion.

He pretended he wasn’t watching out for a dark little head, or for rich skirts and jewels. This was really the wrong part of the palace, but perhaps, perhaps...

“Marquis de Feron,” Treville was saying when he focused on the conversation again, following him into a ridiculously large office. The desk looked lost in the middle of all that empty space. “Governor of Paris, commander of the Red Guard.”

“Ah, Treville.” Aramis immediately disliked Feron; he managed to dismiss Treville even when talking to him.

Then he took one step closer, and lost track of everything.

It was Treville who gripped his arm, holding him in place and all but dragging him out of the room. Aramis was vaguely surprised, but then he remembered that Porthos had been between him and Athos. Apparently their relationship was still not what it had been once.

Treville steered them to a small alcove, studying Aramis intently. “What is it?”

“He’s ill.” Aramis breathed, in and out, letting it drop away. Distance, as always, helped. “Something in his bones. Have you…”

“I’ve not seen anything. Or Seen anything. Something you can fix?”

“I’d have to get closer, but no. I don’t think so. He’s in a lot of pain.”

“Pain does not excuse his actions,” Athos said neutrally.

“I’m not trying to excuse anything, Athos,” Aramis snapped. “I’m just telling you. He’s in pain and it’s getting worse.”

“All right,” Treville said over Athos’ response. “That’s good to know. We’ll keep it in mind. You lot, go get drunk and work out whatever this is.” He waved vaguely between them.

Aramis took a step away, carefully pulling his glove back on. He didn’t remember removing it, but someone would have said something if he’d tried to get a hand on Feron. “There’s nothing to work out, Captain. We’re a little out of step, but we’ll find it again. As they keep reminding me, four years is a long time.”

“Aramis—”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see about lodgings.” He tipped his hat and strode away, resisting the urge to go to the nursery. There’d be time for that later.

Athos spread his hands innocently when Treville glared at him. “As Aramis said, Ca— Minister. We are a little out of practise. It will pass.” He ignored Porthos’ snort. Trevillle eyed him, but didn’t push it, muttering something about Feron and stalking off.

“Do we need to have a talk?” Athos asked, turning to head back towards the garrison. It was really too late to go looking for rooms now; the garrison rooms would do for tonight.

“What’s to talk about?”

“Whatever is wrong between you two.”

Porthos snorted. “You ain’t my counsellor, Athos.”

“I was leaning more towards hitting you until you stopped avoiding him.”

“‘M not avoiding anything. You think they gave our old rooms away?”

“Probably, since I’m sure at least some of them thought we were never returning. You could go on a mission with Aramis tomorrow,” Athos suggested.

“Could go on a mission with anyone anytime, Athos. You know that.”

Athos gripped his arm, halting him. “Porthos.”

Porthos sighed, meeting his gaze. “Like you said. Time. All right? Doesn’t happen all at once. Doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen.”

Athos studied him for a moment before nodding. “All right.”

“Good. Now, if our rooms are gone, I want the one at the end of the corridor.”

“The fact that it backs onto the street wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would it?”

“As if I’d give up my secrets, Athos. What are you thinking?”

Constance lay awake, watching d’Artagnan. She’d never seen him sleep so deeply. He’d always been restless and fitful before, waking often and falling back asleep almost at once. Maybe the trip back had worn him out – Athos had said they’d ridden hard to get back as quickly as possible.

Four years since they’d been married, and she’d seen him less than ten times. Not his fault, she knew; Treville had done his best, but Feron ruled Paris. It was nothing to him if d’Artagnan came home, but it was in his power to refuse it, so he had. No other reason.

Constance had thought of asking the Queen to intervene. That wasn’t really fair, though. Anne was fighting her own battles in the corridors and receiving rooms of the palace. She shouldn’t have to fight Constance’s as well.

d’Artagnan stirred, curling onto one side to blink drowsily at her. “Why’re you awake?”

“Just enjoying the view.” She brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I wish we could stay here forever.”

“That’d be nice,” he agreed. “Especially since I’m supposed to meet the others first thing in the morning.”

“This is all we get?”

“We’re staying in Paris now. You’ll be sick of me after a while.”

“I am used to very small doses at very large intervals,” she agreed solemnly. “This is already more than normal.”

“Maybe I should leave, then.” He made a half-hearted attempt at getting up; when she didn’t try to stop him, he laughed, rolling onto his back. “You’re willing to let me leave?”

“Like you said. You’re staying in Paris. Besides, I’m surrounded by young men these days.”

“How long did it take them to stop gasping at your trousers?”

“Quite a while,” she admitted. “It helps that I keep them behind my skirts.”

“Much more practical for a garrison commander.”

“Den mother,” she corrected him. “Treville is still the one in charge.” She rubbed a hand thoughtfully through his stubble. “I’m not sure about this, though.”

“You don’t like it?”

She propped herself up on one elbow to study him. He lay patiently beneath her gaze, waiting for her verdict.

“It makes you look older,” she decided finally.

He shivered suddenly, sitting up. “That might not be such a bad thing.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve heard a little about Feron. It might be better if he thinks I’m older.”

“He’s still not going to respect you.”

“It might help, though. Tell me, is the Dauphin back at court?”

“Yes.” She sat up to watch him. “He returned a few months ago. So far there’s been no sign of any…”

“Lung problems?” he suggested dryly. 

“No. Yes, lung problems, but no, there haven’t been any. Louis is tremendously fond of him. Too fond, at times; he spends all his time with the boy and lets Feron do as he pleases.”

“And Marguerite, and Lemay?”

“Retired from court.”

d’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. “Together? What a scandal that must have been. Did they at least return the Dauphin first?”

“Not a scandal,” she corrected him primly. “Lemay is the doctor who cured the Dauphin of France, after all. Louis gave the match his personal blessing.” _After Anne reminded him who Marguerite was,_ she thought bitterly.

“Well, I hope they’ll be very happy together.” He touched her forehead, tracing one finger around the side of her face.

“What are you doing?”

He shrugged, eyes on his finger as it traced her jawline. “Looking.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s been nearly three years, and I didn’t take much time to look earlier.” He smiled, touching her cheek. “You’re blushing.”

“You’re staring,” she retorted. “Anyway, you should be careful. I’ve been out in town all day, you might pick up anything off me.”

His gaze shuttered for a moment before he shrugged. “I’ll risk it if it means I get to keep touching you.”

She laughed. “Does fluttering those long eyelashes usually get you what you want?”

“It got me you, didn’t it?”

“Cheeky.”

He leaned in to kiss her. 

“Cheeky,” she echoed dazedly.

“I don’t have to meet the others for a few hours,” he murmured softly, kissing along her jaw.

“Then why are you still talking?”


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis sat at their table in the garrison yard, watching d’Artagnan train some of the cadets. It hadn’t taken long for them to reclaim the table, only a day or two after their return; the cadets were too in awe of them to argue, and Constance scowled good-naturedly but left them to it.

d’Artagnan had jumped straight in to start training the cadets. Aramis, watching closely, could see scraps of all their styles in him: Athos’ calm, Porthos’ street tricks, his own smoothness. d’Artagnan was even advocating head over heart, which he remembered Athos trying desperately to get him to use in his own cadet days.

Porthos sat down heavily beside him, biting into an apple. “What’re you seeing?”

“No touch hunger.”

“No,” Porthos agreed easily. Aramis glanced at him, and he added “We’ve been watching. We know what to look for.”

“Yes. Of course you do, my apologies. I just…”

“Feel responsible. You always do. But whatever’s going on with him, Aramis, he ain’t hurting, and that’s a damn sight better than the way he was heading.”

“Was it so very bad?”

Porthos was silent for a few minutes, watching as d’Artagnan physically repositioned one of the cadets to show him a move. Aramis waited patiently.

“You’ve been in wars.”

“Yes.”

“How long? Months?”

“Long enough.” Porthos glared, and he relented. “Months, yes. La Rochelle, five or six months.”

“Before the Musketeers. Was there much fighting?”

“No. We were blockading, not trying to break in.”

“So your Ability wasn’t going off too much?”

“Here and there.” Aramis was watching Porthos now.

“Right. It was mostly normal for you.”

“Yes.”

“d’Artagnan’s just spent the best part of four years in a war. A real war. Fighting every day, near enough. Think how much he feels just walking around Paris on a regular day.”

“How long has he been...blocked?”

“Broken?” Porthos muttered.

“I didn’t say broken.”

“You were thinking it. Nearly all that time. Since he stopped coming back to Paris.”

“I wasn’t—” Aramis shook his head. This wasn’t the time for that argument. “Have you tried Flora? Now that we’re back, perhaps…”

“Flora ain’t here,” Porthos said with a sigh.

“What?”

“A lot of the Court have gone. Can’t even find Flea, or anyone’ll admit to knowing her. They’ve all been uprooted by the refugees coming into the city. Too many of ‘em have been forced into the Court for lack of anywhere else to go.”

Aramis grimaced. “That is – not ideal.”

“In many ways.”

He touched Porthos’ shoulder hesitantly, not sure where they were. “Flea is one of the strongest people I know, Porthos. Wherever she is, I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Oh, yeah. She’s running some town out in the sticks, keeping everyone in line.”

“Their queen.”

“Definitely.”

“Are you two going to sit there all afternoon?” d’Artagnan demanded from the middle of the courtyard. “Brujon here doesn’t believe you’re the best hand-to-hand the garrison has ever seen, Porthos.”

Brujon looked appropriately terrified. “I didn’t say that!”

“Oh, come now, Brujon. A Musketeer stands by his convictions until proven wrong. And I’m sure that Porthos is more than happy to prove you wrong right now.”

Porthos heaved a sigh, pushing to his feet. “Come on, then. Let’s get it over with. I was enjoying that sun.” He advanced on Brujon, who seemed about to faint already.

Aramis grinned. At least d’Artagnan’s methods were still effective.

Athos saved Brujon before too long, calling the three up to the office they still thought of as Treville’s. Porthos glanced through the cracked open door leading to the bedroom, but it hadn’t been touched. Wherever Athos had fetched up, it wasn’t there.

“The king has a mission for us,” Athos said, passing the parchment to d’Artagnan, who read it, raised an eyebrow, and passed it on to Porthos.

“Us,” Aramis said. “You’re coming along?”

“You disapprove?” His tone was mild.

“No. Of course not. You’re Musketeer Captain, you should do what you think is best.”

“This shouldn’t be a difficult mission.”

Aramis accepted the parchment from Porthos and read over it. “Hopefully not. He has guards, I assume?”

“They won’t get in our way.” Athos turned to d’Artagnan. “Have someone get the horses ready and pack some supplies. We’ll camp on the way there. Treville has authorised a purse for the return.”

“Kind of him,” Porthos muttered as d’Artagnan left. “What’s it about, Athos?”

“No one seems to know. The king is keeping it very quiet. Neither the queen nor Treville know, and if Feron does he hasn’t gloated about it to Treville, which would be out of character.”

“A gloater,” Aramis noted. “Always easier to beat.”

“He’s subtle enough when he wants to be, but he is in power now and does not object to flaunting it.” He looked distastefully at the piles of parchment on his desk. “I have some things to sign. I’ll join you in the yard directly.”

Aramis nodded, putting their orders down on the desk. “Enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” he said sourly. Porthos grinned, turning to head downstairs.

Camping out was almost like old times, everyone falling back into their old roles, laughing and joking. As they approached their destination on the second day, though, things grew more serious. Athos outlined the plan several times; d’Artagnan bore it patiently, but Aramis was getting irritated and Porthos had clearly stopped listening after the third time.

“He’s not a fighter,” Aramis said finally. “And you said yourself that his guards won’t stop us.”

“It does no harm to be prepared.”

“You ain’t any more responsible for us now than you ever were,” Porthos told him. “Let’s just do the plan. It’s a good plan.”

“Treville would disagree.” Porthos raised an eyebrow, and Athos clarified, “About my level of responsibility.”

“Treville ain’t here.”

“We didn’t follow you because anyone told us to,” d’Artagnan said, watching the building. “We followed you because you were worth it. Can we please go and get him now? We’ll never make it back to that inn today if we don’t get moving.”

Athos gave in, watching tensely as Aramis and Porthos strode down to the gatehouse. The soldier on guard made a pretense of standing up to them, but he backed down in the face of their pauldrons and let them in.

d’Artagnan stood, watching as best he could through the fence around the property. “Have you ever met him?”

“I attended Court once or twice while he was still in favour. I don’t believe we were ever introduced.”

“What’s he like?”

“Slippery. Gaston, _fils de France,_ will follow whatever side offers him the best reward.”

“He’s not loyal to Louis?”

Athos snorted. “He is when it serves him to be.”

“Poor Louis.” Athos glanced at him, and d’Artagnan shrugged. “You have to admit, he’s had awful luck with his family.”

“Makes you wonder if Phillippe and Agnes would have done any better,” Athos said dryly, straightening up. “Here they come.”

d’Artagnan looked towards the gate curiously. He wasn’t impressed on first glance. Gaston shared no features with Louis; he seemed to be all angles and sharp edges, and he was berating Aramis loudly and ignoring Porthos completely. Another man was trailing behind them.

Athos stepped past d’Artagnan; he glanced over, distracted, and turned back as the little group reached them. “Did you order this?” Gaston demanded of Athos.

Athos didn’t answer. d’Artagnan looked over at him in surprise. “Athos.”

Athos dragged his gaze away from the stranger to address Gaston. “The orders come directly from your brother, _Monsieur._ We are to convey you to him with all due haste.”

“Well, that explains the obscenely early hour.”

d’Artagnan blinked. It was well past noon. “We have planned to stay at an inn along the way, _Monsieur_ , but we should leave now if we want to make it before dark,” he offered. Athos was locked back in his staring match. “Is this gentleman accompanying us?” He shifted, trying to break their line of sight. The stranger didn’t look like a valet, but maybe he was Gaston’s bodyguard.

Gaston glanced at him as though he’d forgotten he was present. “No.”

“Then we must ask you to move on,” d’Artagnan told the man. “We are on the King’s business.”

“I would not wish to delay the king’s business,” he agreed, in a surprisingly deep voice. “Duc, we will speak soon.”

Gaston waved him off, turning back to the Musketeers. “Am I expected to walk to this inn?”

“No, _Monsieur,_ we have a horse for you,” Aramis assured him, going to untie the lead rein.

Gaston snorted. “Barely any better. I suppose a carriage is beyond you.”

“My apologies,” Athos said blandly. “The king’s message specified haste and we had no time to procure a carriage appropriate to your station.”

“What else could I expect from _Musketeers,”_ he sneered, mounting. “Let’s go, then. Although I don’t suppose you’ve picked any decent kind of inn.”

Athos directed the others with a look, taking the spot beside Gaston and letting the others spread out, out of earshot. No need for them all to suffer.

d’Artagnan and Aramis escorted Gaston into the Court. Louis was sitting stiffly on the throne; Anne stood to one side, Treville and Feron on the other. Apart from a couple of guards, there was no one else in the room. Aramis exchanged glances with d’Artagnan, hand drifting down to his sword hilt, but Treville caught his eye and shook his head, just a little.

“Brother.” Louis’ voice was absolutely neutral; Aramis hadn’t thought the king had it in him.

Gaston wasn’t a fool. He prostrated himself before the throne. “Your Majesty. I have prayed for the day I might find favour in your eyes once again.”

“Have you.” Still neutral.

“Daily. I have hoped to beg forgiveness for the foolish actions of a boy trapped in our mother’s web of lies, and accept the punishment that you might deal me.”

Louis stared at him in silence for several minutes. Aramis suppressed the impulse to look at d’Artagnan; the movement would be noticed in the silent room, and it wouldn’t tell him anything.

“Stand up,” Louis said finally. “Fils de France do not grovel on the floor.”

Gaston rose elegantly to his feet. One hand twitched as though he was about to dust himself off, but he seemed to think better of it. “Thank you, brother.”

“I am not quite ready to forgive you,” Louis told him bluntly. “You rebelled against your rightful king and forced me to fight you. You very nearly made me a kin-slayer.”

“Our mother—”

“Don’t bring our mother into this.” Louis sighed, looking tired suddenly. “I want to forgive you, Gaston. I want my family around me again. Our sisters and Nicolas are gone. There is only you, me and Phillippe.”

Gaston smiled, totally insincerely, at Feron. “Of course, dear brother. How are you?”

Feron bowed. “Very well, Gaston, thank you.”

“How lovely. And my dear sister,” he added, bowing to Anne. She inclined her head, expression fixed. “And Treville, at my brother’s side as ever. I’m glad he has you to rely upon.”

“As am I, to be someone worth relying on,” Treville answered, bowing politely. Aramis kept himself from reacting with some difficulty; d’Artagnan was staring intently at a tile in the floor.

“Brother, how can I prove myself to you?” Gaston asked, turning back to Louis.

“I’ve arranged for you to be housed here in the palace. You’ll have a modest household and stipend, and some responsibilities. Prove to me that you can be relied on, that you care for your nephew, your brothers – and sister—” It was clearly an afterthought, and Aramis kept himself from looking at Anne “—and we will see about giving you more power.”

Gaston leaned forward to kiss his hand. “You will not regret this, brother. Thank you.”

Louis nodded tiredly. “Phillippe, Gaston will be staying in the diplomat’s wing for the moment. It’s empty. My butler has been overseeing preparations.”

“I will find him immediately,” Feron promised, turning away.

“Gaston, you will eat dinner with me and the Dauphin tonight.”

“I look forward to it,” Gaston said, kissing Louis’ hand again.

Louis waved vaguely at d’Artagnan. “Escort Gaston to the diplomat’s wing, his staff will be waiting.”

“Sire.” d’Artagnan bowed, gesturing Gaston to the door. Gaston went with another bow.

“Sire,” Treville said softly. Aramis edged back towards the door, trying not to be noticed. “Are you certain this is wise? Gaston—”

“Are you questioning me again, Treville? Gaston is a fils de France and if I wish him to be here, he will be here. Understood?”

“Louis, I think Treville is only—”

“Understood?” he cut Anne off firmly.

“...Yes, sire.” Treville bowed, carefully not looking at Anne.

Aramis flicked a glance at her. Anne’s cheeks were pink, but her head was firmly up.

“Now, everyone leave. I want to be alone.”

Aramis bowed shallowly and turned to the door. Treville escorted Anne out past him; her head was still high, but she was clearly distressed.

“He will see sense, Majesty,” Treville said, and it had the tone of something he’d said a hundred times before. “I’ll have Gaston watched. Nothing will happen, I promise.”

“You can’t promise that, Treville.”

“I can promise to do my best.”

She smiled tightly. “I will hope for the best, then.” She glanced at Aramis but swept away without acknowledging him.

Aramis smiled at Treville. “How are you enjoying being a Minister?”

“Don’t push it, Aramis. Go find d’Artagnan and get back to the garrison. Tell Athos I need extra Musketeers here for the next while to guard Gaston. Louis didn’t assign anyone.”

“Yes, sir.” Aramis saluted and headed off.

“You got no sense of him at all?” Athos asked.

“He’s a politician and he was playing a role,” Aramis said. “There was no sense to get. All I know is he knew how to play up to Louis.”

d'Artagnan stirred where he was leaning against the wall near the door. “Not perfectly. He misstepped about their mother, and he was nicer to the queen than Louis was.”

Athos glanced at Aramis, who didn’t seem to have reacted. “Marie is, of course, a sore spot for Louis,” he agreed instead.

“Who did you put on watch?” d’Artagnan asked.

“A rotating guard of one experienced and one cadet Musketeer. If Gaston complains, he will be told that we are using it as training since we have no reason to expect he will cause any trouble.”

Porthos snorted. “You think he won’t see through that?”

“I expect he will, but he can hardly complain about it. d’Artagnan, you and Brujon will go at six until you’re certain he has turned in for the night. Porthos, you and Clairmont at eight tomorrow.”

Aramis frowned. “And I?”

“You are not assigned to this.”

Aramis sighed. “I can control myself, you know.”

“I’m sure you can,” Athos said blandly, “but I want you to work with the cadets on their shooting for the next couple of days. If there is no progress with Gaston by then you will switch with Porthos and he will teach the cadets instead.”

“Fine,” Aramis muttered irritably. 

d’Artagnan pushed away from the wall. “I’ll go and find Brujon and Clairmont, make sure they know.”

“Good,” Athos agreed. “Be careful.”

d’Artagnan headed down into the yard, where the cadets were practising under the watchful eye of a couple of older Musketeers who’d been invalided away from the front lines. He called Brujon and Clairmont over and briefed them quickly.

“We’re spying on the king’s brother?” Brujon asked.

“Providing security in the royal residence,” d’Artagnan corrected him easily, wondering idly if either of them had an Ability. Serge had followed the regiment to the front lines so they had no easy way of telling any more, and as far as he knew neither had approached anyone else about it. 

“But... Gaston _did_ try to overthrow him?”

“Whom the king chooses to trust is his business, Brujon. Our business is to obey the orders we’re given, and our orders are to watch over the Duc while he is in residence and keep him from harm.” He let that hang for a moment. “Now, if the Duc were to meet with anyone, or visit somewhere you thought was strange... You’re still cadets, so it would be your duty to bring your concerns to a higher authority. You understand?” 

“Perfectly, sir,” Brujon agreed.

“Good. For the next few days you’ll be paired with one of us anyway, to help develop your instincts in that direction. Brujon, be ready by five, we’ll go up to the palace. Clairmont, be here at seven tomorrow morning; you’ll be paired with Porthos.” He grinned. “Depending on the night he’s had, he may be feeling...delicate. Don’t make any loud noises.” Clairmont pulled a face, but he nodded, going back to the training.

“Should I bring anything?” Brujon asked.

“Your weapons. Make sure they, and you, are clean. You’re representing the garrison, after all.”

He might have been imagining it, but he thought Brujon straightened just a little. “Yes, sir.”

“Good man. See you then.”


	4. Chapter 4

Three days had passed, and Athos had been forced to allow Aramis to join the watch rotation, before anything of note happened. Gaston spent the time fawning over Louis when he was allowed, fulfilling the make-work he had been given and piously reading a Bible Feron had given him. The cadets were bored to tears, but they obeyed the orders they were given without complaint.

Athos and Aramis were called to the throne room on the fourth day. Louis was standing on the dias, flanked by Feron and Gaston; Treville stood to one side, eyes dark and watchful.

“Hold,” Louis ordered when they were still only halfway across the room. “You do not have permission to approach us.”

Athos hesitated, glancing briefly at Treville. At least at this distance Aramis wouldn’t be able to sense whatever illness plagued Feron. “Our apologies, your majesty, we were told you had sent for us.”

“We sent for Aramis, who does not have permission to approach us. You, Athos, were not mentioned.”

“As Captain, I felt it wise—”

“Be silent,” Louis ordered. Athos took half a step back, glowering, but he didn’t speak. “Aramis.”

Aramis bowed, aware of Treville watching him very carefully. “Your majesty.”

“I’m told there’s been a breakout from the Gournay-en-Bray camp. You ministered there, did you not?”

“I did,” he said slowly.

Louis gestured impatiently. “And?”

“And, your majesty?”

Feron shifted his weight. “I believe his majesty wishes to know who might have arranged such a thing.”

“I imagine any of the prisoners of war, sire.”

Feron waved that away. “My men were watching them most closely. No, I think it must have been the refugees.”

“Prisoners,” Aramis corrected him. Louis raised an eyebrow, and Aramis continued “None of the people I worked with were there by choice. They had been _kidnapped_ by Feron’s—”

“Aramis!” Treville said sharply.

Aramis took a breath, lowering his head. “Men,” he finished. “On accusations of Abilities, mostly.”

“We cannot allow any heathen Abilities to join Spain’s forces,” Gaston pointed out.

“Imprisoning them and keeping them barely alive is not likely to endear them to France, either, Monsieur,” Athos said neutrally.

“We cannot _utilise_ them,” he said, affecting shock. “It’s more important to keep them from Spain.”

“No, of course we can’t.” Athos watched Louis, who wasn’t reacting. “How many prisoners did we lose?”

“My men retained most of the prisoners of war,” Feron told him. “But almost all the women are gone, and they took some few of the men who were barracked nearby with them.”

“The women were kept separately,” Aramis reminded Athos softly.

“So the women masterminded it?”

“Where would they go?” Louis demanded.

Aramis shook his head. “I’m sorry, sire, but they did not speak of homes or families. Not to me, at least. They only trusted me so much. Can’t they be tracked?”

“My men tried, but they had no dogs and the women had some skill at hiding their trail.” Feron shook his head. “Perhaps we should send you, as you clearly know so much better than we do.”

Athos shifted, but Aramis didn’t bother answering that one. After a moment, Louis waved them away. “Get out of here. We are tired of you both. Aramis, you will not return to the palace unless on our direct orders, are we understood? Ours and ours alone. Not even Feron can override us in this matter. Nor will you attend upon us when we are out of the palace.”

Aramis hesitated. “Your majesty, I am your Musketeer and yours to command, but if you will not allow me—”

“You will be busy finding these women. Our Governor has deemed it necessary to hold them and you _will_ obey his wishes in this matter. Are we understood?” He held Aramis’ gaze firmly.

Aramis bowed again. “I understand completely, your majesty.”

“I certainly hope so. Get out, now.”

Treville followed them out, scowling deeply. “What was that about?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Minister,” Aramis told him, but he was looking away, down the corridor.

Athos rolled his eyes. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I hope so. Dealing with Louis is difficult enough right now.”

Athos nodded. “Try and find out what Feron and Gaston think about that. It might be something we can use.”

“I’ll do what I can. Best go now, before he catches you here. And whatever you did, Aramis…”

He let it hang. Athos turned, pushing Aramis ahead of him down the corridor. Aramis didn’t resist, heading straight for the gate closest to the garrison.

“He knows,” Athos said once they were outside.

“He couldn’t know unless the queen has told him, and why would she?” 

“He must know. What else could it be?” He caught Aramis’ arm, swinging him around so they were face to face. “Tell me you will abide by this.”

“Athos—”

“If he catches you here,” Athos said deliberately, “you will be imprisoned or executed. The queen will likely be set aside. Feron and Gaston will have people watching for you. Swear to me on your faith that you will obey the king’s command.”

“I’m sworn to obey him anyway.”

Athos tightened his grip, ignoring Aramis’ startled breath. “Your word.”

Aramis studied him for a moment before dropping his eyes. “I swear it on my faith. I will not return to the palace unless ordered to by Louis himself.”

“Good.” Athos loosened his grip, patting him apologetically. “Now. Do you have any idea where the ladies might go?”

“Many. I’ll need Porthos for a while.”

“Go ahead. Let me know what you find out.”

Aramis didn’t meet his eyes as he walked away.

d'Artagnan was heading out of the palace when his name was called behind him. Turning, he registered Gaston with surprise, bowing politely. "Duc. How may I help you?"

"I was just going to walk in the gardens, and I can't find my guard. Are you busy?"

"Of course not, Monsieur." d'Artagnan did not allow his gaze to go to the guard halfway down the corridor. "Please allow me a moment to send word to the garrison I'll be delayed." Gaston nodded imperiously and he quickly found the nearest cadet and sent him back to the garrison to let Athos know. "Thank you," he said when he rejoined Gaston.

Gaston nodded, turning towards the gardens. d'Artagnan fell into step, half a pace behind him. "Captain Athos seems to rely heavily on you," Gaston remarked after a moment.

It wasn't quite an accusation. d'Artagnan just nodded. "Captain Athos knows that the best way to succeed is to trust the people working with you."

"And you trust your fellow Musketeers?"

"Of course, Duc. Your brother is very careful about whom he allows into his regiment."

The slight rebuke seemed to work; Gaston redirected the conversation. "I hear that you are my brother's Champion."

"He has kindly called me that, yes. But I do no more than any other Musketeer. We are all dedicated to serving the king, the royal family, and France."

"In that order?" Gaston asked idly. d'Artagnan didn't bother to answer, and Gaston didn't press it. "You'll forgive my questions, I hope. I'm not very familiar with the regiment."

"Of course, Duc. I'm happy to answer any questions you have."

Gaston asked a few random questions. d'Artagnan kept stressing their loyalty to Louis, almost enjoying it after a while. Gaston was visibly getting more frustrated, and d'Artagnan was a little surprised at it. For a boy raised in the royal Courts, he had no skill in bluffing; everything he was thinking was visible on his face.

"Tell me, are any of you assigned permanently?"

"As a personal guard?" d'Artagnan checked. "Not usually, Monsieur. We are assigned to missions as needed, as our training dictates. For example, Aramis is the best shot in the regiment, so he would be assigned to missions that are likely to need sharpshooting."

"And where are you assigned?"

"As needed, Monsieur. I'm a fair swordsman."

"Indeed? I studied under some masters myself, you know."

He smiled politely. "I didn't, actually. Perhaps we could spar some time. I'm sure you could teach me something. Are you worried for your safety, Monsieur? I can promise you that palace is very safe."

Gaston smiled thinly. "Of course it is. I just worry. After finally reconciling with my dear brother, I would hate for anything to happen to either of us."

"I understand completely. Don't worry. The regiment is totally devoted to keeping him, and you, safe."

"Yes, I've heard plenty about how loyal the regiment is. Almost supernaturally so."

d’Artagnan refused to react to the emphasis Gaston had placed on the word. He couldn’t _know_ anything, and there was no way he could prove d’Artagnan had an Ability now. “Any good soldier is loyal to the head of his regiment, Monsieur. Otherwise he is no better than a mercenary.”

“Of course,” Gaston murmured. “And how is your lady wife?” d’Artagnan couldn’t quite hide his surprise that time, and Gaston smirked. “I know many things, d’Artagnan. You are the only married Musketeer, and she was my dear sister’s premier lady for some time.”

“She’s well, thank you. She’ll be flattered that you asked.”

“She left royal service to take care of the garrison, I believe? Is she...fulfilled?”

“She is happy in her work, Monsieur. She has the whole regiment at her beck and call.”

"Pardon," Athos said from the entry to the garden. "Duc, I hope you will forgive me. I need d'Artagnan for an urgent mission. I have found your guard if you wish to continue your walk."

Gaston's smile thinned even more. "No. Thank you, I think I've had enough air for now. d'Artagnan, it was – interesting."

d'Artagnan bowed again. "For me as well, Duc. I'm at your service for that spar, or if you have more questions."

Gaston turned on his heel and stalked back towards the palace. d'Artagnan waited until he was quite out of sight before turning to Athos. "A mission?"

Athos waved it away. "No. What did he want?"

“He wanted to intimate that he knows about the requirement.” He thought for a moment. "And to look for an ally, I think. He had questions about the regiment. And he didn't like it when I told him how loyal we are to the king."

Athos frowned, turning to leave. d'Artagnan fell into step beside him. "An ally?"

"I don't trust him," d'Artagnan murmured. "He's planning something and he was trying to see if we'd stop him."

" 'The king'," Athos repeated thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry?"

"You said the king. Not Louis? We're loyal to the king?"

d'Artagnan blinked. "Did I?"

"Yes."

"Well...aren't we? Louis is the king, but the Musketeers serve the crown."

"And the person wearing the crown," Athos muttered.

d'Artagnan caught his arm, halting him. "You think Gaston's planning a coup?"

"I think nothing of the sort. But I do think we should be wary of him."

d’Artagnan nodded. “I don’t think he actually knows about the requirement,” he added after a moment. “He was looking for a reaction.”

“Still, it’s worrying. An accusation from Gaston could be very dangerous. We’ll have to watch him.”

“Add that to the list,” d’Artagnan agreed, mounting and following him out of the courtyard and back towards the garrison.

“You do remember me tellin’ you I don’t know anyone here anymore, yeah?” Porthos called.

“We’re not looking for your friends, we’re looking for mine.” Aramis ducked out of the path of a cart into a narrow alley. They were skirting the edges of the Court of Miracles, now overflowing with refugees fleeing the war along with the usual denizens. For a moment he was almost glad d’Artagnan wasn’t sensing anything; the mass of humanity, almost all of them suffering in one way or another, would have been difficult for him to bear. As it was, he was following them calmly, one hand on his sword hilt against any trouble. No one had come near them thus far, though.

They headed further into the Court. Porthos did his best to lead them, but in the years of his absence buildings had collapsed and been roughly rebuilt and the paths and alleys had changed beyond recognition.

He halted in a square, looking around and shaking his head. “Nah. No idea where we are now. Sorry, Aramis.”

“Since we didn’t know where they were anyway, it hardly matters,” Aramis said absently, hands on his hips as he looked around.

“You haven’t seen anyone you know?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Couple faces I used to pass. No one I’d say I knew. No one lives long in the Court anyway, and with all these new people coming in…”

d’Artagnan nodded, crouching to give a coin to a young girl huddled on a doorstep. “Can’t be easy on them.”

“They’re gonna follow us now,” Porthos pointed out mildly.

“Good.” He tossed another to a boy. “Someone has to know if they’re here, and this is the quickest way to find out.”

“You’ll think they’ll tell you the truth? Kids here’ll say anything if there’s a coin in it.”

“Someone will know the truth.” He glanced around at the growing crowd; no one was approaching yet, but they were watching him carefully.

Aramis unhooked his coin pouch, holding it in one hand. “We’re looking for some women who may have arrived lately.”

“I know where they are!” someone shouted. “I’ll show you!”

“Specific women, not any women.” He described several of them. “They’ll have come from Gournay-en-Bray quite recently.”

“Why d’you want them?” someone called from the back of the crowd.

“I want to help them. To be sure they’re well.” He bounced his purse a couple of times. “Has anyone seen them?”

Several voices spoke up at once. Aramis waited patiently, and they trailed off.

A young boy came close enough to swipe at the purse. “I know where they are! I’ll show you!”

“Why don’t you go there, and tell them Aramis is here. If they come back with you, and they’re the right people, I’ll give you this whole purse.”

“What if they won’t come?”

“If they give you a message you get a livre.”

Most of the crowd dispersed in different directions. d’Artagnan looked mistrustfully at a nearby wall, leaning gingerly against it. “What do you plan to do if we find them?”

“As I said. I plan to help them as best I can.”

“You’re not gonna turn ‘em in?” Porthos asked. Aramis glared at him without answering. “Alright, alright. Just checkin’.”

“What was it like?” d’Artagnan asked. “What are they like?”

“Sylvie is fierce. Angry. As were many of them, and deservedly so. Elodie is remarkably brave. Jehenne flirted with the guards to gain extra rations which she shared out…” He continued, describing several of the women he’d worked with, recounting specific moments he’d witnessed or been part of.

A couple of people trickled back into the square. None of them had found the right women. Aramis threw them each a sou anyway. Neither d’Artagnan nor Porthos complained.

“Did you empty the royal treasury?” 

Aramis looked up, pushing his hat back a little. “I doubt Louis would approve.”

“Your own personal money, then?” The woman approached him.

“My own personal money.” He tossed the purse to the boy lurking behind her. 

“That eager to turn us in, are you?”

“No one’s turning you in, Sylvie.”

“Sure about that? Your boys there don’t look too happy to see me.” She looked from Porthos to d’Artagnan. “I know you, don’t I?”

“I met you briefly in the camp,” d’Artagnan reminded her.

“Oh, yeah. You were with the nosy one.”

“Athos.”

“Athos,” she repeated thoughtfully. Turning abruptly to Aramis, she added more angrily, “ _You_ said you were coming back.”

“My apologies. I hoped to petition the king and hopefully get some of you released, but I hadn’t fully understood the situation here. How is Elodie?”

“Uncomfortable. You have time to see her?”

“Of course.”

They followed Sylvie through the alleys. Aramis tried to engage her in conversation, but she wasn’t in the mood to talk and he knew better than to try to force her. Eventually she ducked through a mostly-there doorway into an almost completely upright building.

d’Artagnan waited outside, but Porthos followed Aramis inside. The women had cleaned up a little, but there was only so much to be done. Aramis noted approvingly that they seemed to have concentrated on Elodie’s room; the fabric covering her bed was clean, and although the window was still thick with dust, the floor and walls had been washed.

Elodie herself was resting on the bed; she pulled herself up a little when they came in. “It really is you!” she said, delighted, holding out a hand. Aramis took it, checking carefully. The usual general state of rundown, but nothing serious; she and the baby were both fine.

“...oh,” Porthos said, sounding surprised.

Aramis glanced back at him briefly. “Elodie, Sylvie, this is Porthos.” He occupied himself doing more obvious checks, for denial’s sake.

“Ah, this is _Porthos,_ ” Sylvie said, eyeing him up and down. “You’re not as big as I thought you’d be.”

“What?”

“Well, all his stories, he made you sound like some kind of giant. You’re not much taller than I am.”

Aramis caught the amused look Porthos sent his way. “A giant, huh?”

“I was entertaining children,” he said briskly, rubbing Elodie’s hip to ease a small strain. “Exaggeration seemed to help. Elodie, I can’t stay long, but I will return as soon as I can, I promise. Rest as much as you can. I don’t think you’ll give birth for a while yet.”

“I might surprise you, we usually drop early in my family.” She smiled. “I always feel better when you’re here.”

“I will come as much as I can, but I have to be careful. As far as Louis is concerned I’m hunting you. If I spend too much time here Feron will get suspicious.” He sat back on his heels. “Sylvie, if you need me in between times, visit the Musketeer garrison. No one there will turn you in and they’ll know where I am.” 

She nodded. He squeezed Elodie’s hand as he stood, sending a gentle pulse of tiredness into her. The more she could rest, the better. “I’ll return soon, I promise.”

She was already drifting off, and he let Sylvie fuss around her for a minute before ushering them out. “Do you need money?”

“What’ll you do if I say yes? You gave all yours to that kid.”

He grinned. “But I have Porthos and d’Artagnan here with me.”

Sylvie snorted. “They don’t look much better off than you. Keep your money. We’re alright for now.”

“Good.”

She showed them the quickest way back to the main streets, vanishing into the crowd before there was any risk of her being seen. Aramis watched her go for a moment before turning away, not wanting to risk drawing attention, and headed back towards the garrison.


	5. Chapter 5

“Can they stay hidden?” Athos asked.

Porthos shrugged. “The new Red Guard don’t seem any more eager than the last Red Guard to go into the Court. But then they ain’t really Court, either.” Athos raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged. “Maybe. Court won’t give ‘em up easy, but they won’t try too hard to hide ‘em, either.”

“And they can’t go home?” he asked Aramis.

“Elodie’s husband was called to the war, and her lord took their land, as she is without children or brothers to work it. I don’t know Sylvie’s story, but I imagine it’s similar.”

“Her husband is fighting for France and he took their land?” d’Artagnan demanded. “Did she appeal?”

“Who would she appeal to? You and your father may have listened to your tenants, but you are very much in the minority. No one would listen to a peasant girl over a member of the nobility.”

d’Artagnan sighed. “No, I suppose not. Does she need somewhere to go? I can write home.”

Aramis shook his head quickly. “She can’t travel now, and she won’t be fit for work for some time. But thank you.”

He nodded. “Maybe in a few months.”

“You’ll need to be careful,” Athos told Aramis. “If you’re seen…”

“I know. I’ll take care.”

“Captain Athos!” One of the recruits burst in, looking vaguely terrified. “Riots, sir!”

“Where?” Athos grabbed his hat. The others were hard on his heels as he pushed out onto the balcony. Recruits were throwing saddles onto horses and finding weapons; it was rather more chaotic than in Treville’s day, but it seemed effective enough.

“Saint Antoine, sir.”

d’Artagnan groaned, swinging down the staircase. “We were just there! They couldn’t have had the riot then instead of making us come back here first?”

“Make sure to ask them that,” Aramis advised him, plucking a musket from someone’s arms and stowing it on his saddle.

“What caused the riots?” Athos asked the recruit – Clairmont, he thought, but he wasn’t sure of their names yet. d’Artagnan had been handling that.

“Rumour that one of the city storehouses has been robbed.”

Athos blinked a couple of times, trying to parse that. Robbery was never good, but to start a riot? 

Constance, below, seemed to notice his confusion. “Rations from the storehouses is all that most of the refugees have to live on,” she told him. “They’re already too few and too far apart. If one of the storehouses has been robbed, it’ll take time to get more rations here and people will starve while they’re waiting.”

That made more sense. He stepped down the stairs, trailed by Clairmont, and found his horse waiting by the gate. “How many do you want me to leave you?” he asked Constance quietly.

She shook her head. “Take them all. Sounds like you might need them.”

“Indeed. Musketeers!” He rose in his stirrups to make sure they could see him. “Mount up!”

Porthos whistled as they rode along, and Aramis dropped back from riding by d’Artagnan to join him. The streets should have been bustling, but it seemed news of the riot was getting around; traders had hastily packed up and houses and shops were shuttered tightly.

“I can get to your girls quicker than anyone,” Porthos said. “Want me to go straight there?”

“Are you certain you can find it?

“Now I’ve been to it, yeah. Won’t be a problem.”

“I would appreciate that very much. I’m not worried about Sylvie, but Elodie…”

“Ain’t exactly in a state to run anywhere. I’m on it.”

Aramis patted his shoulder and jogged his horse to rejoin d’Artagnan. “Another battlefield, if not quite the kind you’re used to.”

“Not quite,” d’Artagnan echoed.

“d’Artagnan—”

“Aramis. We’re not having this conversation.”

“Perhaps now is not the best time,” he allowed. “Later?”

“You misunderstand me. We’re not having it at all. I don’t need you to tell me about my— self,” he altered, glancing sideways at the nearest recruit.

Aramis reached for d’Artagnan’s reins to get his attention. “It’s concern for you. Not doubt in your ability to know yourself.”

“And when there’s anything happening that you can help with, you’ll be the very first one to know. For now, I need you to leave it _alone._ Now, excuse me. The boys are a little nervous.” He spurred his horse on, catching up to a knot of recruits and talking quietly to them.

Aramis sighed, dropping back to join Athos at the back. “No luck?” Athos asked.

“No,” he grumbled. “And don’t you start on at me about how you’ve tried. I know you have and I’m not doubting your skills.”

“In this matter you are more skilled,” Athos said easily, “but perhaps you should leave it for now. Annoying him isn’t going to get you the answers you seek.”

“Save us from the stubbornness of Gascons,” Aramis murmured, the familiar refrain almost a prayer in itself now.

The group ahead slowed as they neared Saint Antoine. There was already evidence of trouble here; overturned carts and mess were strewn across the road, and blood sprayed over a door frame at head height. Athos swung down from his horse, whistling for attention. “Clairmont – and you—” he pointed randomly at another recruit. “Stay with the horses. The rest of you, let’s go. Be very careful if you attack anyone! Be certain that it’s necessary. There will be women, children, and noncombatants caught up in this, and our priority is to calm things down, nothing else. Ready?”

“Ready!” they mostly answered, mostly in time, and he nodded firmly. Aramis set himself at Athos’ shoulder and they advanced.

d’Artagnan had ordered the boys to keep their weapons sheathed, and he was glad to see they were obeying. These weren’t soldiers, mostly, just desperate people; he didn’t want the Musketeers making things worse by killing them.

They advanced into the riot-filled square, separating fighters, putting down the ones who wouldn’t stop, escorting women and children back to the safer streets beyond. The fighting was spreading into the Court of Miracles; the denizens were mostly trying to flee, but it was difficult in the cramped confines and maze of dead ends. d’Artagnan wedged the recruits between the square and the entrances to the Court, hoping to control the flow of people attacking.

“They stole our grain!” someone shouted at him, accompanying the words with a hurled bottle. “We should burn them out!”

“You’ll burn down all of Paris, you idiot!” he snapped. “If the refugees stole the grain, we’ll find it. You need to go home and wait.”

“My children are starving!”

“Everyone’s starving! We’d be looking for the grain right now, except we’re here, trying to stop a _riot!”_

The man flung another bottle, ducking into the crowd before d’Artagnan could go after him. He was tempted to try anyway, but the crowd suddenly surged as horsemen charged in from one side. He shouted to the recruits to hold firm, watching as they mostly weathered it. The crowd was pulling away from them, escaping down streets and alleys back into Paris.

One of the horsemen pulled up beside d’Artagnan, deliberately crowding him. “Tell your men to stand down,” he said brusquely. “We have this under control.”

d’Artagnan raised an eyebrow, looking around at the scattered remains of the fighting. “You have _what_ under control, exactly? And who are...no, wait. I know you. Marcheaux.”

Marcheaux swung down from his horse, almost smacking into d’Artagnan when he refused to give way. “The Red Guard will take care of this. It’s our remit, after all.”

“Failed to keep your prison camp in order, so now you’re here failing to keep the streets in order? That sounds right.”

Marcheaux glowered at him. “Call your men off.”

“I’m sorry, I think you’re looking for Athos; he’s our captain, I can’t possibly give an order like that without his agreement.”

“And where is Athos?”

He jerked his head towards the Court. “He’s in there trying to stop the riot – Brujon, don’t attack the Red Guard!” He smirked at Marcheaux. “We are allies, after all!”

“Sorry, Monsieur d’Artagnan, he barged into me and I missed my swing!”

“Accidents all around, then.” He nodded towards a nearby knot of fighting and Brujon hurried over.

“I told you to stand your men down,” Marcheaux snapped.

“And I told you I don’t have the autho—”

He cut himself off sharply. Sylvie was trying to edge around some fighters to get to a nearby alley. If Marcheaux saw her…

“I’m not surprised you want us to stand down. We’re showing you up, aren’t we?”

“We’re the ones who ended this riot!”

“You scared them away,” d’Artagnan said dismissively. “You didn’t end anything. We’ll be rooting them out of taverns for hours. Whereas my cadets have captured—” He glanced over. “Looks like at least fifteen.” Marcheaux glared, and he feigned apology. “I’m sorry, is that too high for you to count?”

“Be careful, Musketeer. You’re not as safe as you think you are.”

d’Artagnan brushed some dust from Marcheaux’s shoulder, smirking. “Touch me, then. I dare you.”

Behind Marcheaux’s shoulder, Sylvie slipped into an alley and vanished.

“You might regret that,” Marcheaux said, waving two Red Guards forward.

“I really doubt it,” d’Artagnan told him.

He didn’t bother fighting the Guards; they couldn’t really hurt him, after all, and Sylvie was safe. Brujon tried to come to his defense, but d’Artagnan shouted him back with orders to tell Athos what had happened and followed the Guards away, head held high.

Athos returned to the square with a couple of rioters in tow to find the cadets milling about uncertainly under the eye of a Red Guard captain. He left his captives with Aramis and strode across the square, shouting them into order.

“Where is d’Artagnan?” he demanded irritably, looking around for him.

“Arrested by the Red Guard, Captain,” Brujon said meekly.

Athos turned on his heel, glaring at the other captain – Marcheaux, he realised when he looked more closely. “What authority do you have to arrest a Musketeer?”

“He laid his hands on me,” Marcheaux said lazily.

Athos glanced at Brujon to check; Brujon shrugged uncertainly. “It looked like a touch, not a blow, but he did touch him.”

“The nature of the touch hardly matters. What matters is that he laid hands on me as I was trying to calm this riot.”

“Are you charging him?”

“No. You can have him back tomorrow. A night in the cells might help him calm down a bit. Remember who his betters are.”

“If he meets any, I’m sure he’ll remember,” Athos said evenly, holding Marcheaux’s gaze. He might have been minor nobility – the officers usually were – but he broke first, turning away from Athos’ glare and shouting at his men.

Athos left him to finish clearing up the damage and take charge of the rioters, gathering the cadets to head back to the garrison. Constance was working at something in the yard; she abandoned it as they came in, counting them past the gate.

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” she asked as Athos came in last. “Athos?”

“Unhurt, as far as I know,” he told her, dismounting. “The Red Guard came to help. d’Artagnan’s been arrested. He’ll be released tomorrow.”

“Arrested? What for?”

“Officially, for laying his hands on the Red Guard Captain. Unofficially, probably for speaking to him.”

“That sounds about right,” she muttered. “Will he be alright? Overnight?”

“He survived the Chatelet. The Red Guard’s lockup won’t be any worse. Do you want me to come tomorrow when he’s released?”

“No. I’ll go.” She sighed, scrubbing absently at her apron. “I should get back to work.”

“We couldn’t manage without you,” he said, as sincerely as he could. He meant it, but expressing it wasn’t easy. “d’Artagnan is a lucky man.”

“We’ll see if he thinks so tomorrow. Getting himself arrested! Honestly, that man!”

She stalked off, and Athos nodded in satisfaction. Anger would get her through the night more easily than fear.

d’Artagnan didn’t fight as the Red Guards dragged him to their barracks – on the palace grounds, he noted with some surprise – but he didn’t make it easy for them, either, avoiding their kicks and stepping out of the way of the smacks and pushes. The other prisoners weren’t having as easy a time of it, he noted, with the Red Guards deliberately making things difficult for them.

They were all locked together in the cellar, a dark and dim room with a low roof. d’Artagnan found a corner and leaned against the wall, eyes skimming over the other prisoners. They didn’t seem like rioters; more like the Red Guard had swept the street and bundled everyone they could find into the cell. There were children, women, elderly. Almost no one d’Artagnan would have identified as a threat.

He pushed off the wall and crossed to the bars. “Guard!”

“Shut up,” the nearest Guard ordered.

“I want to speak to Marcheaux.”

“The captain is too busy to run down here at the whim of a prisoner. Sit down and shut up.”

“I’m a Musketeer—”

“You’re a prisoner. Shut up.”

He walked away before d’Artagnan could respond. d’Artagnan grimaced, picking his way back to a corner.

There were noises outside, he realised a little later. Noises he recognised. Someone building. A few of the prisoners were pulling away from the tiny window; d’Artagnan pushed through them, catching the bars and pulling himself up to see.

After a moment he dropped back to the floor and returned to the locked entryway. “Guard! I want to see Marcheaux, now! Bring him down here! Guard!” 

He kept shouting, banging the bars, making as much noise as he could until Marcheaux eventually arrived, glaring at him. “This had better be important, Musketeer.”

“What are you doing out there?” He waved vaguely towards the window.

Marcheaux followed the gesture, smirking. “Don’t recognise it? I’d have thought a Musketeer would know.”

“These people haven’t had a trial, you can’t just—”

“We are enacting Church law. It’s been approved.” He leaned against the bars, still smirking. “You Musketeers do follow Church law, don’t you?”

“You think these people have Abilities? You’re even stupider than I thought. Why wouldn’t they use them to escape, you clod?”

Marcheaux leaned close, as though sharing a secret. “I was going to let you wait in here. But now you can come. Watch them hang. Afterwards, you’ll have this whole cell to yourself. Won’t that be nice?” He glanced up the corridor. “You have a little while before it’s ready. You should relax. Take things easy.” He grinned, sauntering off.

“Marcheaux!” d’Artagnan slammed the bars. “ _Marcheaux!_ ”

Constance was waiting outside the Red Guard barracks when d’Artagnan was released. A bruise was rising on his cheek and his clothes were filthy, but he seemed mostly unharmed.

Unharmed, but furious. “Since when do Red Guards have the authority to do that?” he snapped, brushing past her.

“Do what?”

“They have—” He stopped himself, breathing deeply. “The Red Guard are Feron’s men, they’re not supposed to operate on the streets!”

“The Red Guard have been doing as they please for years now.” She caught his arm to hold him in place, holding his chin lightly and examining the bruise.

d’Artagnan tossed his head to loosen her grip. “It’s fine.”

“Did it break anything?”

“No. It’s just a bruise. It’ll be fine.”

She brushed her fingers over it lightly. “Come back to the garrison. I’ll clean it for you.” Dropping her hand, she added lightly, “You could do with a bath anyway.”

He sighed, pulling her in to kiss her forehead. “I have to talk to Athos.”

“He’ll probably prefer you don’t smell like a midden when you do. Come on.” He was looking back at the barracks; she took his hand, squeezing it lightly. “Come on. You’ll feel better away from here.”

Porthos was sitting on the table when d’Artagnan and Constance came into the yard. He stood to greet them, but paused at arms’ length. “You stink.”

“The Red Guard’s maid is on strike,” d’Artagnan snapped. “Where’s Athos?”

“On the other side of your bath,” Constance said calmly, waving to a group of cadets. “Hot water, boys, and plenty of it!”

Porthos watched in amusement as they literally jumped to it. Treville had never made them move that fast. “Come on, d’Artagnan, I’ll scrub your back for you.”

d’Artagnan told him precisely what to do with that offer, stalking upstairs and shedding bits of uniform as he went. Constance gathered them up, pulling a face.

“I can wash those for you,” Porthos offered, holding out a hand.

“Can you?”

“Done my share of clothes washing, back in the day. You go scrub his back. See if you can wash off that foul mood.”

“It can’t have been easy for him, stuck somewhere like that. There’d have been other prisoners, hurt and afraid. Must have been awful.”

Porthos very carefully didn’t react, taking the pile of clothes from her. “I’ll take care of these. You take care of him. We’ll get him right again.”

She nodded with a quick smile, following two of the cadets as they carried buckets upstairs. Porthos watched her go, frowning thoughtfully to himself.

d’Artagnan hadn’t told her he’d lost his Ability. Why was he keeping that secret?


	6. Chapter 6

Aramis was sparring with Athos when d’Artagnan emerged, still faintly damp, and came down with Constance to join them. Athos tossed his sword to Brujon for cleaning and joined the others at the table. Aramis waved the cadet off and kept his; the blade was slightly damaged and he wanted to work the small nick out himself, to be sure of it.

Porthos passed around hunks of bread for them. “Better enjoy it, if the grain ain’t found Paris’ll be in trouble.”

“If the Red Guard have their way there won’t be enough people left in Paris to starve,” d’Artagnan muttered, tearing his bread into pieces. “They’re lynching people, Athos. Marcheaux claimed it was Church law, but they can’t possibly…”

“People are terrified of Abilities,” Constance said, taking his hand. “Just the accusation’ll get you arrested at best.”

“And at worst?” Aramis asked, frowning.

“Rough justice has become very rough. At least the Red Guard probably know how to hang someone. I’ve seen a lynching last near an hour.”

Aramis shivered, muttering a brief prayer. “Scared men…”

“A man with any kind of honour would make it quick,” Constance snapped. “Too many people are using fear as an excuse.”

“They are loud and getting louder,” d’Artagnan agreed.

“All the more reason you should be careful,” Porthos told him.

“Yes, how did you manage to get yourself arrested?” Athos asked mildly. “It’s rather bad form, you realise.”

“I was distracting Marcheaux so that Sylvie could get past without getting caught. I was afraid he’d recognise her.”

Aramis blinked in surprise. “That was thoughtful.”

“Practical. Think of the crowing if he caught her before you did.”

“Still. Thank you.”

He shrugged, brushing it off. “The other one, Elodie, she’s alright?”

“Rioting never got that far in,” Porthos reported. “She was worried, but that’s about the worst of it.”

“I’m sure she was glad you were there.”

“We talked a bit. ‘Bout her husband. He was serving under Compte de Bauvais.”

d’Artagnan hissed. “Freiberg?”

“Freiberg,” he agreed grimly.

“What does that mean?” Aramis asked with a frown.

“You didn’t hear? No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“De Bauvais’ entire regiment was lost in that battle,” Athos told him. “It forced all our lines to move. That’s why we were so close to your prison camp. We should have been much further north of there.”

Aramis muttered a quick prayer. “Did you tell her, Porthos?”

“Not outright. Think she guessed something was up, but she didn’t push.”

He nodded. “I’ll go and see her when I can.”

“As far as we know, no prisoners were taken,” Athos said clinically. “That may be some comfort.”

“It may,” he murmured. Elodie was a practical woman, but she did feel things quite deeply. Perhaps it would help her to know that her husband hadn’t been captured. 

“I’ll go with you, if you’d like,” Constance offered.

“Thank you. I’m sure she’d like to meet you.”

“Do we have any kind of lead on the grain?” d’Artagnan asked, finishing his bread.

“A man was found selling grain from sacks marked with the king’s sign. He’s waiting for us to get around to questioning him.”

“How long has he been waiting?”

“Probably just about long enough. He’s in the refectory. Don’t make too much mess, your wife will be very unhappy.”

“Your wife will make you clean it up yourself,” Constance said primly.

“It’s unfair of you two to gang up on me,” d’Artagnan told them, rising to his feet. “Porthos, would you like to help me instruct the cadets?”

“Always willing to pass on some knowledge.”

“Clairmont!” d’Artagnan waved the boy to join them as they headed for the refectory.

Aramis went to put his sword away. Brujon was already in the armoury, finishing up with Athos’. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do that for you?”

“I enjoy it,” Aramis told him. “It’s soothing.”

“I suppose,” Brujon said uncertainly. “Did...”

“Hmm?”

“Did I hear M. d’Artagnan say he deliberately got arrested to protect someone?”

“Yes. A woman we know a little. She had nothing to do with the riot and he thought it the best way to protect her.”

“I see,” Brujon murmured, eyes distant.

Aramis didn’t comment; whatever associations Brujon was making, they probably weren’t for him. “You know, you could just call him d’Artagnan. He wouldn’t mind.”

“I– no, I can’t, he’s not– it’s not _respectful._ ”

“A little bit of disrespect is good for him now and again. Keeps him humble.” He draped an arm around Brujon’s shoulders. “Let me tell you about the time…”

It was a convoluted trail to the stolen grain, but once the merchant gave up his contact it was easy enough to follow. Porthos visited the contact, a wagon merchant, and found dust on his wheels that led him to an old quarry a little way outside Paris. He sent a message to the garrison to tell them where he was and headed out alone to see what he could find.

He slid into the Fade as he approached the storehouses built around the quarry. Wagons were pulled up and three men sat on guard outside the largest building. Porthos wandered past them into the building, noting the stacks of sacks piled against every wall, bulging with grain. It looked like the shipment was essentially untouched.

He could have waited. Probably should have; he knew what Aramis would say when he heard about this. He could even have taken them out still in the Fade. It would have been easy. The work of a moment.

Too easy. He needed a challenge. Something to get his blood racing. He didn’t miss the war – he’d never miss the war – but he had become used to fighting. He stepped out of the Fade right in the guards’ eyeline.

It still didn’t take long – they were thugs, not soldiers – but at least he felt it had been more sporting. He got started loading the sole nearby wagon while he waited for the others to catch up. They were going to need a lot more wagons.

The cadets got a good workout shifting the grain from stack to wagon to stack. Athos and the others pitched in, making sure to do just as much work, while Constance and the garrison cook made up hot packs and baths for afterwards. Athos and the others were in the very last group, stacking the last sacks into the granary and making sure that the grain keeper signed off on it. They’d recovered nine hundred and ninety four of the thousand missing sacks, and no one was pushing them too hard about the last six.

As they left the granary, heading for the garrison, a stranger rode up on a dark coloured horse. “I hear we have you to thank for recovering our grain,” he said cheerfully.

“Have we met?” Athos asked curiously.

The man looked over at him. “Very briefly, Captain, at the house of the Duc d’Orleans.”

“Ah, yes. You were…”

“Conducting business,” he said obligingly, if vaguely.

“That’s a fine animal,” Porthos said thoughtfully.

“A recent acquisition.” A nearby church started chiming the hour, and he clicked softly to turn the horse. “Please accept my thanks once again. I’m afraid I have to leave now. Business, you understand.”

“Perhaps our paths will cross again,” Athos said.

“Oh, I’m sure they will, Captain. I’m the future.”

“Pardon?”

“In the future.” He smiled benignly again, riding away.

“That was strange, yes?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Why would he say ‘I’m the future’ ?” Aramis agreed.

“And I recognise that horse. He belonged to the wagon master I dealt with today,” Porthos said. “Want to bet if we went out that way we’d discover he had a nasty accident of some kind?”

“You think our new friend has some connection with the theft?” Athos asked.

“I think it might be worth asking Gaston who he is, if we can get at him.”

“We’ll add it to the list of things to worry about,” Athos said with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

d’Artagnan and Constance, at Athos’ insistence, had moved into Treville’s old quarters. It was the largest of the poky rooms in the garrison, though not by much, and Athos spent little enough time in the office, so they weren’t disturbing each other. They were slowly finishing up lunch when there was a knock at the door. Constance answered it to Brujon, looking ill at ease.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No, Brujon. Come in.”

He did, carefully closing the door and crossing to the window to look out. Constance glanced at d’Artagnan, who shook his head briefly.

“What do you need, Brujon?”

He turned from the window, looking surprised. “Oh. I…”

He hesitated again, and Constance offered “I can go and get Aramis if you like. Confessional rules.”

“No! No, not Aramis.”

“I can tell it’s upsetting you.” d’Artagnan was choosing his words with care. “It’s usually not as bad once you say it.”

“I don’t have... I can’t prove it.”

“That’s alright,” Constance assured him. “Better to come and work it out with us than rush off half cocked like some other Musketeers I could mention.”

“I’m married now, I don’t do that anymore,” d’Artagnan said mildly. “Brujon, I promise, things will seem better if you tell us.”

Brujon’s eyes were closed tight. “Something’s going to happen to the king.”

d’Artagnan’s voice was still level. “Soon? Today?”

“I’m not– not today, I think.”

“Good, then we have some time. Sit down.”

Brujon obeyed, boneless. Constance fetched a cup of wine and stood over him until he drank it.

“I can tell you believe it,” d’Artagnan said after a moment, and he put an emphasis on ‘tell’ this time. Brujon looked up sharply. “You don’t have to say any more, but if you wish to, I’ll listen.”

Constance moved to sit on the arm of d’Artagnan’s chair. “What he means is, he’s too busy worrying about his own Ability to try to get you in trouble for yours.”

“Constance!” d’Artagnan protested, but he was still loose and easy in the chair.

“You weren’t going to say it and he needed to hear it. You men and your little codes!”

“It’s not a thing one just blurts out,” d’Artagnan said mildly, looking at Brujon. “If you want to talk, do. If not, we will take your warning at face value.”

Brujon played with his cup for a moment. “There are moments in some lives that change everything. Everything is different afterwards.” He glanced towards d’Artagnan. “You had one, in a snowy inn yard.”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan agreed, keeping his expression neutral with an effort. “You can see these coming?”

“Not always. And I can’t usually tell what they are until afterwards.”

“So how do you know it’s the king?” Constance asked.

“I haven’t seen the king. But something very big is going to change for the queen and the Dauphin. I can’t think what else it could be.”

d’Artagnan nodded. “That makes sense. What if we get you near him?”

Brujon shrugged. “I can’t promise anything, but…”

“Alright. We’ll get you onto his detail and see if anything comes to you.” d’Artagnan leaned forward to catch his eye. “You did the right thing telling me, Brujon.”

“Are you going to tell the others?” He didn’t seem to have any feeling about it one way or the other.

“No. They don’t need to know. They’ll trust my judgment.”

“Should I tell them?”

d’Artagnan glanced at Constance and back at Brujon. “That’s up to you. But remember that if you tell the wrong person, there won’t be much I can do to help.”

“Not that we won’t try,” Constance added. “Do I have a moment, Brujon?”

“Yours are smaller.” He smiled a little. “d’Artagnan is wrapped up in most of them.”

“Sounds about right. He’s always turning my life upside down.” She grinned affectionately down at him. “Let me guess, there’s the day he swooned at my feet?”

“I did not swoon,” d’Artagnan corrected her firmly. “I passed out in a manly fashion.”

“Mmm. Straight into the gutter, as I recall.”

“Yes, thank you, Constance. I did have a broken rib at the time, if you recall.”

“Poor you.” She ruffled his hair as she stood. The conversation had worked; Brujon looked more at ease. “I have duties to take care of, but I’ll make sure no one interrupts you.”

“It’s fine. I’m done. Thank you.” Brujon stood quickly, setting his cup aside. “If I learn anything else I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Brujon,” d’Artagnan said seriously. Brujon nodded, hurrying out.

“That was fun,” Constance murmured. “Are you going to tell the others?”

“I’m supposed to,” he said neutrally. “But no. I think I can let it slide for now.”

“For now?”

“Every Musketeer has to tell his superiors about his Ability before he can be commissioned. Brujon’s done that with me, but it’s no good unless I tell the others. But that’s not today’s problem.”

“Oh?”

“No.” He caught her around the waist, tipping her into his lap. She shrieked, then laughed, swatting at him and settling in. “Today’s problem, dear Constance, is you telling people I swooned at your feet.”

“Oh, do you not like that? That’s what I told people in Court about you if they didn’t know you. ‘Why, yes, I am married. Yes, he’s sweet. He swooned at my feet the first time we met, so I decided to keep him.’ “

d’Artagnan considered that. “There’s worse first impressions to make.”

She laughed, kissing him briefly before standing again. “I have duties,” she said when he protested, “and you have training.”

“It’s Athos’ job to lead training,” he grumbled,

“And how often did Treville lead training himself? You’re Athos’ second. Deal with it.”

d’Artagnan grumbled, but he got up and headed for the courtyard. Constance smiled quietly to herself as she headed out. Her boys needed so much care.


	7. Chapter 7

“I thought I was exiled from the palace.”

“Until he chose otherwise, and he has chosen otherwise,” Athos said over his shoulder. “Just mind your tongue. We don’t know why he’s called you.”

“If he were anyone else, I’d say it was to ask about the ladies, but…”

“But he’s probably forgotten about them already,” Athos agreed. “Fortunate, as you can’t actually tell him anything.”

“I could spin wonderful tales of my adventures tracking them down,” Aramis suggested.

“Best not, if you can avoid it.”

Treville met them in the corridor, but he didn’t know why Aramis had been summoned either. “Be careful. Louis is in a strange mood today.”

“When is he not?” Aramis murmured, but he nodded when Treville glared and followed them into Louis’ receiving room.

“...your majesty’s regal presence,” Feron was saying. Aramis stopped himself from rolling his eyes with some effort.

“Indeed.” Louis stepped around the dressing screen, wearing what he probably thought were peasant’s clothes. “Ah, and look, my escort is here. See, my dear? Everything is fine.”

Anne followed him, flicking a glance at Aramis. “I mean no disrespect to our fine Musketeers, but a troop—”

“Aramis,” Louis said over her, ignoring her completely. “I make pilgrimage to my father’s tomb. You will be my escort.”

“I, your majesty?”

“You studied as a monk, did you not?”

“Yes, your majesty, but…”

“Then you are the perfect escort.” He took a step closer, watching Aramis closely. “Phillippe thinks I should take more men, but we’d be noticed then. I prefer a quiet visit.” Another step. “You can provide that?” Another.

“Yes, your majesty, but you should still–” He stuttered into silence as Louis came closer and his awareness was flooded with pain.

Louis was ill. Very ill. And it didn’t seem that anyone was aware.

“Is your Musketeer ill, Treville?” Feron was asking. Aramis focused, shoving down the instinct to reach for Louis’ hand. At least he was still far enough from Feron to avoid feeling whatever was wrong with him, too.

“Yes,” Athos said blandly. Of course he’d noticed, but maybe he still believed it was Feron... “We came to apologise to your majesty. You should choose another Musketeer. Perhaps d’Artagnan.” Or maybe he didn’t. He wouldn’t be trying to get Aramis out of the trip if he didn’t believe it was Louis.

“I’m quite sure I asked for Aramis, not d’Artagnan,” Louis said, equally bland.

He knew. He was doing it deliberately. Aramis drew a deep breath, nudging Athos’ shoulder lightly. “Don’t worry, Athos. I’m not so unwell that I can’t manage this.”

Athos looked back at him, eyes dark, but he didn’t argue, just stepped aside. Aramis bowed to Louis. “Where to first, your majesty?”

“First you change your clothes. Then we visit Notre Dame. Let’s go.”

“This is not good,” Athos murmured.

“Louis chose Aramis on purpose,” Treville agreed. “Why would he do that?”

Athos was silent as a servant walked past them, eyes down. “Aramis is under the impression that the king knows about certain events that happened a few years ago.”

It took Treville a moment, but then he sighed, rubbing his face. “Has he said anything?”

“Other than order Aramis away? No.” He stepped into an alcove, waiting until Treville joined him. “Aramis’ reaction just now suggests to me that someone was injured.”

“Feron. We knew that.”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe so, sir.”

He watched as Treville worked through that, scowl settling in. “You think that _Louis…_ ”

“I think so, sir. You haven’t seen anything? Haven’t Seen any physicians, perhaps, or strange behaviour?”

“No.” Treville looked old. “No, I haven’t. Can Aramis help him?”

“It will depend rather on what is wrong. And whether Louis has any intention of allowing him.”

“Why would he ask for him if not…”

Treville trailed off. Athos didn’t say what he was thinking; didn’t dare, here in the palace. But he knew exactly why Louis would ask for him, and he knew Treville knew too.

“I think the cadets could use some practise patrolling the streets,” he said after a few moments. “I’ll go and see to that.”

“Be careful he doesn’t see you.” The warning was perfunctory and Treville didn’t move as Athos strode away; he just stood, leaning heavily on the wall and staring into the distance.

Louis was definitely doing it on purpose. His route wound back and forth through Paris, crossing their own path over and over again as they visited different churches. In the churches Aramis could give him some space to let him pray, but as they travelled the streets he was obliged to stay shoulder to shoulder with him, and it was wearing on him.

By the third church, word was spreading of a rich man giving out alms. Aramis eyed the crowds unhappily, slipping back inside to find Louis in a side chapel of the church.

“Word has spread that a rich man is giving away coin,” he said, pausing just far enough away to avoid Louis’ pain. “We should return to the palace immediately.”

“Do you believe in heaven and hell?” Louis asked dreamily. “That a man will be punished for what he’s done?”

Aramis hesitated, taking a step closer. From here he could feel the urge building up. “Yes. I do.”

“So do I.”

Aramis moved closer, almost close enough to touch him. “Your Majesty?”

Louis glanced sidewards at him. “That is not why I brought you here, Aramis.”

“It is exactly why you brought me here, sire.”

“Hmm.” He turned away, brushing past Aramis. The urge to get a hand on him was almost unbearable. “We go to Saint-Denis. Then we can return to the palace, if you’re so worried.”

“Saint-Denis is a long way from here…”

“Then we should get moving.”

Brujon was standing across the yard when they emerged from the church, wearing plain clothes and scanning the crowd with a frown. When he caught Aramis’ eye he looked deliberately to one side; Aramis followed his look to see Clairmont, also in plain clothes, in an alley. He relaxed a little at the realisation that he was surrounded by Musketeers.

Louis tossed coins to a few of the crowd and then turned away. Aramis hurried to catch up with him, shoving a couple of the more enthusiastic beggars away and planting himself firmly at Louis’ shoulder. A couple of the cadets were in the crowd, shoving and steering people away, and between them they got Louis clear and continued towards Saint-Denis.

Louis didn’t seem to notice the cadets. Aramis was glad about that. And they’d be going back to the palace soon. That was even better. He wasn’t going to be able to hold himself back for much longer.

When they reached Saint-Denis and the royal mausoleum, Aramis hung back to allow Louis to enter. He kept his distance as Louis knelt by the tomb, praying silently. Aramis didn’t really remember the last king; he’d still been in his teens, adjusting to his father’s rules, when news of the assasination reached them, and it hadn’t meant much to him at the time. Now, though, he thought of the boy Louis had been then, and he felt pity.

“I suppose you’re used to death,” Louis said abruptly.

Aramis shifted a little. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately,” Louis echoed softly.

“No soldier worth the name wants anything other than peace, your majesty.”

“Hmm.” He stood, leaning back against the sarcophagus. “Do you want peace?”

“Why are we here, your majesty?”

“Because I wish it so.”

Aramis studied him for a moment. “Do you intend to allow me to help you?” Even that question was risky, but it was clear now that Louis had chosen him because of his Ability. If he wanted to condemn Aramis for it, nothing he said now would help.

“No,” Louis said indifferently. “I don’t believe you could, anyway.”

“Illness?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“Not without a closer examination. Which you don’t seem inclined to allow.”

“I am not so inclined,” he agreed sharply. “This is illness, not injury.”

Aramis took a step closer, feeling the tug again. “I could help you feel better.”

“Do you believe so?”

“Your majesty—”

“You may be right,” he said over Aramis’ half formed question. “There is something that would help me.”

All of Aramis’ senses went on alert. “And what is that, your majesty?”

“You can tell me the truth. For once in your snivelling life, face up to what you have done, face _me_ , and tell me the truth.”

He shook his head slowly. “There is no point…”

“I could order it. You are my Musketeer, are you not?”

“I am, your majesty.”

“Then do it. Tell me.”

Aramis studied him. “What purpose does it serve? If you wish to condemn me you don’t need my confession. All you need is your order.”

Louis stared at him, eyes bright with – not anger, Aramis realised suddenly. Tears. “I have the White Plague, Aramis. I will die before the Dauphin’s next birthday. He is all I leave to the world, and he is not mine.”

Aramis swallowed, hard. The White Plague! He had never even imagined... “He loves you. You are his father in every way that matters.”

“But I am not a man, Aramis. I could not give Anne children.” He was leaning harder on the vault, exhausted.

Aramis stepped closer again, folding his arms tightly to keep from reaching for him. “The Queen was damaged inside, your majesty. She could not carry children until…” He trailed off, unwilling to admit to any more than that. “The Dauphin is and will always be your son, no one else’s. Who else knows?”

“Knows?”

“About you, your majesty. The White Plague.”

He shrugged listlessly. “My physician, I suppose.”

“No one else? The Queen? Minister Treville?” After a moment, he added “Feron?”

“I haven’t told anyone.”

Aramis took a deep breath. “I didn’t plan to sleep with anyone. I don’t sleep with married women. But as you are very clearly aware, once I know someone is hurt it is almost impossible for me to ignore it.”

Louis snorted. “You’re telling me you slept with her to heal her?”

“I know what it sounds like, your majesty. But it is true. I am your soldier, and she is my queen. I would never jeopardize that. Please. Allow me to help you or allow me to call another Musketeer to escort you. What you’re doing is cruel.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it,” Louis mused.

“I have thought you many things, your majesty, but never cruel. Please.”

“What have you thought me?” he asked curiously.

“Young. Well meaning. Easily led. A good hunter. A loving father. Smarter than you pretend to be. Too smart for this.”

“Imminent death does strange things to a man. Perhaps you know that, too. As a soldier, and a man of God.”

Aramis dragged in a breath, barely able to focus past the insistent call of Louis’ pain. “Your majesty—”

A shot fired outside, and they both whipped around to look at the nearest door. “Stay behind me,” Aramis murmured, pulling his pistols free and moving towards it.

“Give me one of those.”

“Your majesty…”

“I’m not dead yet. Give me a pistol.”

Aramis considered him for a moment, reholstered the pistol and bit into the fingers of his glove, pulling it loose and offering his hand to Louis. “Take my hand. Then I’ll give you a pistol.”

“You think you’re in a position to bargain?”

“I think I don’t want you collapsing if we have to run, and I can hear the crackle in your lungs from here. My hand, then your pistol.”

Louis sighed, sounding extremely put-upon, but he offered his hand. Aramis took it, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden rush. After hours of being so close to Louis, his Ability was desperate to help.

Illness had never been his strength. He did what he could, but he couldn’t repair any of the damage, only clear some of the muck from Louis’ lungs and give him more energy. “There,” he said, forcing himself to let go. “Now at least you won’t collapse.”

“We can hope. Now give me a pistol. If we’re being attacked…”

“We may not be. And if we are, there are Musketeers nearby. You will return to the palace today, your majesty.”

“Today,” Louis echoed softly. “Let’s see, then.”

d’Artagnan and Porthos had stayed a couple of streets behind Aramis and Louis, letting the cadets keep them in view. They were doing well, rotating in and out so Louis didn’t notice them, chatting casually with street traders and beggars and watching for anyone suspicious. Aramis was keeping them updated with hand signals and mimes; Brujon or Clairmont came back to report to them every so often.

“How did Aramis look?” Porthos asked, when Clairmont looped back to them near Saint-Denis.

“Tired. Is he ill? He looks worse every time they leave a church.”

“Ill,” Porthos echoed vaguely, letting Clairmont take it as confirmation. “Are they coming back soon?”

“He said after this stop. It’s good, too, the crowds are getting—”

They all spun around at the sound of a gunshot. People on the street screamed, immediately panicking; Porthos started to wade between them, heading for Saint-Denis as fast as he could. The crowd who’d been following the king were scrambling away, making it harder for Porthos to gain any ground, and he quickly lost d’Artagnan and Clairmont as he struggled forward.

The cadets were spreading out to surround the grounds when he finally broke through. They were a bit ragged, but they’d managed to cover the exits and each others’ backs. He shouted one boy further into cover and left them alone apart from that.

“What is it?” he asked, stopping by Brujon.

“Thieves, we think,” Brujon said uncertainly. “They didn’t seem too organised, but they’re between us and the crypt.”

Porthos looked through the fence, taking in the scene, aware that d’Artagnan had caught up and was studying it beside him. “Any sign of Aramis?”

“They went in that entrance.” Brujon pointed, flinching a little as another cadet took a shot to force one of the thieves back under cover. “No sign of them since.”

d’Artagnan leaned forward, studying it. “So we need to keep them behind that line...and that one...so they can’t get near the door, and Aramis can pick them off.”

“From there?” Brujon said doubtfully.

“Easily,” d’Artagnan told him. “Assuming he has enough shot.”

“He brought two pistols with him,” Porthos said. “Full refills.”

“Then we just need to keep them...oh, damn…” He rose to take a shot as Louis leaned out of the door, aiming at someone.

Porthos snarled. “Aramis should be keeping him inside! Cadets, keep a close eye!”

“He’s a good shot,” Brujon noted, edging away a little to get a better angle.

“Good tutors. And a lot of practise hunting.”

Between the Musketeers outside and Aramis and Louis inside, they whittled down the group. Porthos shifted his aim on the last couple, looking to injure instead of kill; they needed at least one to question, to make sure this wasn’t a plot of some kind. He caught one in the shoulder and Louis took one in the leg.

“Cadets, advance!” d’Artagnan ordered. “Keep looking all around! Cover each other! We have to be sure the danger is over before we can allow the King to leave the cathedral! You two, go and get some horses.” The cadets scattered into the grounds, checking the bodies, stripping weapons from the two injured men and making sure no one was hiding anywhere.

d’Artagnan watched, eyes narrowed. Porthos let his gaze skim over the grounds, looking for anything out of place. “Looks good,” he said finally.

d’Artagnan nodded. “Let’s wait for the horses, we can take him straight back to the palace. Do you want to go and check with Aramis?”

“Yeah. Better make sure they haven’t killed each other.” He headed for the cathedral and d’Artagnan went to make sure the two survivors were under close guard.

“It was a setup.” Athos dropped a sheet of parchment onto his desk, eyeing them. “Someone knew the King would be there and hired them to make sure he never returned to the palace.”

“Who?” Porthos asked, picking it up and scanning over it.

“Your prisoners knew only the name _Grimaud._ Nothing else. They couldn’t even say whether Grimaud was their benefactor or only another go-between. Someone offered a high price for Louis’ life.”

“You’ve told Treville?”

“Guard has been increased at the palace, and we will attempt to prevent the royal family from leaving unless it’s very important. There’s little else we can do.”

“Put Brujon on his detail,” d’Artagnan said, taking the parchment from Porthos.

“Brujon?” Athos repeated.

“Yes. Get him into the palace near Louis.”

“Why?”

d’Artagnan glanced up. “I am required not to tell you.”

Porthos blinked. “Brujon?”

“I am required—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. You’re sure?”

“Fairly sure, yes. Put him on Louis’ detail.” He caught Athos’ look. “If nothing else, he’s a Musketeer, Athos.”

“Musketeer _cadet._ ”

“Still better than most of the regiments. Brujon’s the best of them.”

“There’s something you need to know,” Aramis said abruptly. Porthos turned, surprised; Aramis had been mostly silent since he came back from the cathedral.

“Louis is injured?” Athos asked. “Treville and I surmised as much—”

“Louis is dying.”

No one spoke for a long moment; then Porthos shifted. “I know your sense of humour, Aramis, but...”

“Not a joke,” he said bleakly. “He has contracted the White Plague. He called me for his guard deliberately, to hurt me.”

Porthos hissed out a breath. He’d seen the White Plague in the Court. “Have you washed up?”

“Yes. And changed clothes, and thrown the ones I was wearing onto a bonfire. No one at the palace is ill.”

“Or we haven’t been told,” Athos muttered. “Who knows this?”

“Louis’ physician. He says that no one else is aware.”

“Who is his physician? Do we know?”

Aramis shook his head. “Treville will. We’ll have to tell him this.”

Athos nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. He needs to know. As does the Queen.” Aramis closed his eyes wearily, and Athos added, “d’Artagnan and I will take care of that. Porthos, you take care of Aramis. d’Artagnan, find Brujon and let’s get him onto the patrol.”

“We hardly need to now,” d’Artagnan muttered, but he stood and headed for the yard anyway.

Athos caught Porthos’ eye, tilting his head towards Aramis – _look after him?_ Porthos nodded – _of course_ – and Athos followed d’Artagnan out. Constance was on the stairs and he asked her to make sure Aramis ate something. Brujon had the horses ready and they mounted up, heading out.

They were almost at the palace when a Red Guard thundered up. “Captain Athos!” 

Athos reined in, turning to look at him. “Yes?”

“There's been a break out at the Chatelet! Minister Feron demands your regiment’s aid in recapturing the prisoners.”

“Does he.” Athos looked over at d'Artagnan. “Take Brujon to the palace, tell Minister Treville what’s happening and make sure the Corps is alerted. Brujon, take whatever Musketeers are in the palace and sit on the royal family. Do not allow them to leave or even move about if you can prevent it.Treville will help you.” Brujon nodded and he continued “d’Artagnan, as soon as you’re finished at the palace ride for the garrison and bring everyone to the Chatelet.”

“Be careful,” d’Artagnan told him, wheeling around and starting to ride. Brujon hastened after him, and Athos followed the Red Guard towards the Chatelet. “How did it happen?”

“There was a new guard on shift. A patient claimed to be ill and the guard went to check without any backup.”

Athos pulled a face. “Dead?”

“Not yet, but it won’t be long.”

They pulled up in the yard, where Marcheaux was shouting at some of his men. “Where are your men?” he demanded as Athos dismounted. 

“Guarding the king, as is our remit. The rest are on the way. What is happening?”

Marcheaux scowled. “We’ve accounted for all but eleven of the prisoners. They damaged some cell doors on their way out, so you’ll have to hold them somewhere else until the doors are repaired.”

“The Red Guard has a perfectly good barracks.”

He scoffed. “Our barracks are in the palace grounds, _Captain._ Do you really want us bringing these men there?”

“Your barracks are on Rue d’Homme.”

“Not for nearly a year now. An outbreak of illness in that area necessitated our leaving so the barracks could be used for quarantine. Anything _else_ you should already know?”

Athos refused to react. “You have names? Descriptions?”

“Do you want identifying marks, too?”

“That would be most helpful, thank you.”

He scowled and stalked away, shouting for another man. Athos waited, eyeing the prisoners huddled together under Red Guard watch.

By the time d’Artagnan and the others arrived, he had a relatively useful list of names and descriptions. He divided out the group, sending some of the men to knock on every door in the surrounding streets – the alarm bells had rung, but he wasn’t taking any chances – and setting the others to comb certain areas. “Be careful,” he warned everyone. “These are desperate men, and they are already facing a life sentence. They have very little left to lose.”


	8. Chapter 8

The streets were mostly empty. d’Artagnan and the others headed down the row, knocking on each door to warn the occupants and make sure no one was inside who shouldn’t be. He didn't expect to find anyone this close to the Chatelet; they would surely keep going, trying to get further away.

Runners between his group and the Chatelet kept them up to date on the numbers; the first prisoners had been found before they found some more hiding in a tavern. The fight was short and violent and ended with two cadets down with minor injuries and the three prisoners back under control. d'Artagnan sent them to the garrison and continued on with his diminished group of men.

Eventually, he found himself on his own, the rest of his group gone to escort or to nurse injuries and their replacements not yet with him. It didn't bother him. They had captured all but two of the prisoners and he was almost sure this sector was clear. For the first time in a long time, he missed his Ability. It would have made things easier, trying to find these men.

In a small area of greenery – it couldn't even really be called a park, but at least it was something – he found a man in cuffs and rags, crouched at the bottom of a low slope. "Monsieur, I'm afraid I have to ask you to come with me," he called out calmly. "Let's do this the easy way. Most of your friends are already back."

"They are trying to kill me," the man said matter of factly.

"The other prisoners?"

He sighed impatiently. "The voices."

d'Artagnan slowed to a halt, eyeing him. "The voices are trying to kill you."

"They never stop. Whispering, always whispering. Can you hear them?"

"No. Let's get going. We can find a doctor to help you."

"I am the king!" he shouted, suddenly on his feet and furious. "How dare you speak to me in such a way!"

d'Artagnan thought quickly. Playing along was probably more likely to get good results. "My apologies, your majesty! Your disguise is so perfect, I didn't recognise you. You know me, don't you? I'm a Musketeer. I'm one of your men." He tapped the pauldron on his shoulder. "You remember now, don't you?"

The man studied him suspiciously. "A Musketeer."

"I was sent here to keep you safe, your majesty. Won't you come with me? It's not safe out here, with all those prisoners running around, but I can take you somewhere to protect you. Come on, let's go." He offered his arm, trying not to cringe at the incredible smell. Clearly, the Chatelet weren’t too bothered with their prisoners' hygiene.

He considered it for several fraught moments before allowing d'Artagnan to help him up, moving with a surprising amount of grace. "I'm glad that calling you here worked. My enemies are everywhere, you know."

"I know. We were all very worried about you." He was thinking furiously. If he brought this man back to the garrison, he'd be sent back to the Chatelet and no care would be taken with him. "I have somewhere safe we can go. Let's walk calmly, all right? We don't want anyone to be suspicious and alert your enemies. It'll be fine. This way."

d’Artagnan showed up late and distracted, but Athos ignored it to talk to Porthos. “We have everyone now?”

Porthos glanced at d’Artagnan, who nodded acknowledgement. “We do now. When’re they going back?”

“Not before three.”

He snorted. “So we’ll be at the Chatelet gates at one minute past?”

“That is certainly– what’s going on?”

Brujon was shouting at one of the prisoners, wading through the group to try and make him settle down. The man was on his feet, shouting, trying to draw attention.

From _d’Artagnan_ , Athos realised with surprise. What could d’Artagnan possibly have to do with—

d’Artagnan brushed past Porthos without seeming to see him. “What the hell are you doing here? In the Chatelet? You’re supposed to be on the farm!”

“The farm was destroyed!”

“And rebuilt, you idiot!” He dragged the man out of the line of prisoners and into the refectory, shouting at the couple of cadets inside until they hurried out. Athos followed him in, leaving Porthos to control the courtyard.

d’Artagnan all but flung the man at a bench, taking a couple of steps away to try and calm himself down. “What are you doing here?” he asked finally. “And don’t try and pretend it’s about the farm.”

“It _is_ about the farm. Your foreman pushed me out.”

“So you thought running away would solve your problem? What the hell are you doing in the Chatelet?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said defensively, straightening but not trying to get up.

“Don’t push me,” d’Artagnan said darkly.

“I _didn’t._ I looked for work. I want to work! I want to earn my way! But no one would give me anything, except one publican. He cheated me out of my wages and when I protested, he called the guards, and they ignored everything I said. I swear it, d’Artagnan.”

d’Artagnan glared at him, arms folded tightly across his chest. “Why didn’t you write to me?”

“We thought you were on the front! No one’s heard from you in years. Marcon acts as though the farm is his. When I protested, he turned the town against me until I had no choice but to leave.”

“Turned the town against you,” d’Artagnan repeated slowly.

“As if it was hard. I was always the screw up."

Sensing that d’Artagnan’s anger had eased a little, Athos shifted enough to draw attention to himself. d’Artagnan glanced at him, registering him properly for the first time.

“Athos,” he said on a sigh. “Meet Espoir, my cousin. Espoir, my captain.”

Espoir nodded, eyeing Athos warily. “We hear good things about the Musketeers. d’Artagnan’s clearly flourished under your leadership.”

“Careful,” d’Artagnan said under his breath.

“d’Artagnan is one of my best men,” Athos said neutrally. To d’Artagnan, he added “Cousin?”

“The son of my father’s brother. Only child. They lived and worked on our farm with us.”

“And your foreman threw him off?”

“There’s clearly work to be done there, if this war ever ends.”

“Clearly,” he murmured.

“I know Espoir,” d’Artagnan said quietly. “He’s not a criminal.”

Athos deliberately took a couple of steps back; d’Artagnan followed, and Espoir took the hint and looked away, staring hard towards the window. “You knew him years ago,” he said quietly. “When you were both boys, before the war. Was his father living when you left? He must be dead now if your foreman was able to remove him.”

“He died a couple of years before I came to Paris.” d’Artagnan rubbed his face. “I don’t believe he would steal. Can we find the records?”

“I’ll have Porthos look into it. For now he must go back with the others.”

d’Artagnan winced, but nodded. “I understand. I’ll take care of it.”

“Then I’ll talk to Porthos.” He tapped d’Artagnan’s arm. “If he is innocent, we will do what we can for him.”

“And if not I will obey your orders,” d’Artagnan answered, tone clear. He turned to Espoir. “We are looking into your story. But for now, you are an escaped prisoner and we must treat you like the others.”

Espoir nodded resignedly. “At least it’s better in your courtyard than in the Chatelet. Let’s go.” He stood. “Whatever you find, it was good to see you again, d’Artagnan.”

“It’s good to see you, Espoir. Whatever we find, I will deal with the situation at the farm.”

“That’s good to know.” He meekly followed d’Artagnan out.

Athos stood for just a moment before leaving to find Porthos. Another on the endless list of things to worry about.

Constance waited for Athos to finish talking to Porthos before waving for his attention. “Do you need me for the next while?”

“I don’t believe so. Is something wrong?”

She glanced towards the group of prisoners. “I’m not feeling very comfortable here right now. I thought I’d go and see if the Queen is free for a walk in the gardens. I haven’t seen her recently.”

“Of course. Bring one of the cadets. They can join the guard there until you’re ready to return.”

“I can walk from here to there, you know.”

“Indulge me,” he said firmly. “And take your time about returning. We will manage without you.”

“You’ll be lost within three hours.”

“Undoubtedly, but it will teach the children a valuable lesson.”

She laughed and went to find Clairmont to escort her. He was quiet, but solicitous, and insisted on walking her all the way to the queen’s rooms. The guard on duty recognised her and let her in without argument, and Clairmont was walking away when Constance tripped over the body of a maid and shrieked.

“Madame d’Artagnan!” He was at her side a moment later, lifting her bodily away. “What is— is she—?”

Constance wasn’t listening. “Your majesty? Your majesty!” She hurried into the inner rooms.

Anne was sitting on her bed, and for a moment Constance was relieved, until she noticed how stiff she was, until she saw the man standing with her. “Your majesty?”

“Madame d’Artagnan,” Anne answered. “Louis, you remember my lady, Madame d’Artagnan.” _Louis?_ Constance took her cue and curtseyed, with no idea what Anne was doing. “Louis was just suggesting a walk in the garden,” Anne continued, voice strained. “Perhaps you’d accompany us.”

Clairmont pushed at the door. Constance leaned against it without thinking. The man, the false Louis, had a blade, she could see now. No wonder Anne was playing along. “A walk sounds lovely, your majesties. The weather is so lovely today.”

“I don’t want a walk,” the man said tensely. “I’m looking for my son.”

“That’s alright then,” Constance said briskly. “I saw him in the garden with his governess not long ago. We can go and find him there.” The pressure against the door behind her vanished and she hoped fervently that Clairmont had got the message. “Why don’t we go out this way?” She gestured to the garden door. There wouldn’t be a guard on it, only on the perimeter, and she didn’t want to spook the man while he had that blade so near the queen. “My lady, why don’t you let me find a wrap? There’s a breeze outside. Come over here and I’ll put it on for you.”

The man grabbed Anne’s arm, pulling her flush against him. “I’ll keep her warm.”

Constance forced a smile. “How kind of you. Let’s go, then.” She grimaced apologetically at Anne, who shook her head minutely.

Constance was half hoping for a gardener to be outside – although she couldn’t expect them to actually intervene, they could raise the alarm – but no one was working in the queen’s gardens. She tried to lead them, but the false Louis glared at her until she dropped back behind them.

As they passed a bush a hand wrapped firmly around her mouth and another pulled her back. Clairmont let go as soon as she recognised him, gesturing for silence. Other guards and Musketeers were silently surrounding them, drawing in around them to block any escape.

One of the ladies in waiting stepped on to the path, a good distance in front of them. “Your majesties?”

The false Louis took half a step away from Anne to see more clearly, and three guards tackled him from different directions. Another two hustled Anne away, grabbing Constance as they passed her. She glanced back long enough to see the lady being escorted away; then she hurried after Anne. Her friend would need her now.


	9. Chapter 9

On his way back to the garrison, Aramis was waylaid by a messenger. Ten minutes later he was passing Anne’s security into her rooms. Constance let him in and he went to his knees beside Anne’s chair, reaching for her hands. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m quite uninjured.”

“Are you certain? He didn’t harm you?”

“Not so much as a cut hair.”

“It was terrifying,” Constance added, “but we managed it. Get up, Aramis, the King’s on his way.”

“You shouldn’t be seen here,” Anne agreed, twisting her hands out from under his. “Louis is already in a bad mood.”

Aramis stood, reluctantly, and took a few steps away. “Who was he?”

“One of the Chatelet prisoners, we’re assuming,” Constance said. “Bit of a stretch otherwise. Feron’s organizing checks to see how he got into the palace – he should have been stopped before he even got near the gates.”

“And we trust Feron to run those checks?”

“He has no reason to want me dead,” Anne pointed out.

Aramis considered pointing out the obvious, but before he could there was a knock on the door. Constance hustled him into a side room and he leaned against the wall by the door, listening intently though his view was blocked.

“Your majesty,” Constance said politely.

“Madame Bonacieux.” There was a pause before Louis added “Are you harmed, my dear?”

“No, Louis,” Anne said steadily. “I was afraid, but I’m not hurt. Luckily Madame d’Artagnan came in when she did, or it could have turned out very differently.”

“Madame…? Ah, yes. Yes, lucky indeed.”

“How did he come to be in the palace?” Constance asked.

“Allow the palace guards to worry about that, Madame d’Artagnan,” Feron answered. Aramis grimaced at the sneer in his tone. “Surely you have duties at the Musketeer garrison?”

“Since the garrison is being used to hold the prisoners your men allowed to escape, no. I’m quite free to help her majesty recover.”

“Your loyalty is admirable.”

“Indeed,” Louis said, bored. “If you’re quite well, my dear, I have other things to deal with.”

“Quite well, Louis. Thank you for coming to check.”

“Yes, well, it’s only proper.”

“Of course,” she agreed, a little more faintly.

“Rest assured, this will be addressed in the strictest terms.”

“I’m certain it will.”

“What happened to the man?” Constance asked.

“He resisted my men,” Feron said briefly.

“I’m sorry?”

“He’s better off.”

Aramis closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall as he realised what Feron meant.

“...oh,” Constance said faintly.

“He laid hands on the Queen of France,” Louis said. “He was never going to be pardoned anyway.”

“Of course not,” Anne agreed. “Now, if you’ll pardon us, I think I need some time with my ladies.”

“An excellent idea,” Louis said jovially. “I’m sure they’ll have you smiling again in no time. Do let me know if you require anything.”

As soon as they were gone Aramis slipped back into the room. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Anne said again, exasperated. “You need to leave before my ladies arrive. You can’t be in my chambers.”

“She’s right,” Constance agreed. “I’ll take care of her, and Clairmont is on guard outside. I’ll send word if anything happens. But the man is taken care of now, and the guard will be on alert.”

“You’ll call me the second—”

“The very second. Now go, go!”

She bundled him out the door. Aramis scowled, meeting Clairmont’s surprised look; the cadet flushed and looked away.

“If you hear anything, _anything_ suspicious,” Aramis told him, “I want to hear about it immediately.”

“Immediately,” he promised. “I will see to it.”

“Good. I will send someone to replace you. Do _not_ leave until he gets here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Aramis turned on his heel and stalked away, ducking out of sight as the queen’s ladies hurried past. They wouldn’t be any actual help, but maybe they’d distract Anne for a while. He headed back to the garrison to report and find out what had happened.

Porthos had no trouble getting into the office of the Chatelet’s warden. Finding the right file proved rather more challenging, but he eventually found a handwritten note detailing the charges against Espoir. “One charge of affray, one of theft,” he muttered, shoving the paper into his jerkin. They were nothing charges, nothing that qualified Espoir to be there, and he trusted d’Artagnan’s judgement on his cousin. ‘Losing’ the paperwork would keep him out of trouble.

On his way out, he paused to watch the Red Guards moving around. They were supposed to be fixing damaged doors, but he hadn’t seen any evidence of damage; doors were either still locked tight or standing open, and he’d opened a few himself, but nothing was actually twisted out of place or blown open. So what were the Guards doing? He followed a couple as they headed deeper into the cellars.

From the chatter, he gathered that they were almost finished with whatever they were doing, with everything loaded – what had they taken? What was stored down here? – and that they were working now on covering up what they’d done. It was tempting to come out of the Fade and question them, but Porthos held himself in check. It was more important to find out exactly what was going on and report back to Athos.

“See, Aramis?” he muttered to himself, stepping out of the way of two Guards carrying a small chest. “I know how to restrain myself. Thinkin’ ahead, that’s the key. Make sure nothing’s goin’ wrong.” The Guards passed without so much as a glance at him and he headed down the staircase they’d come in, finding himself in a vaulted space.

“Is that everything?”

The voice echoed oddly, but Porthos recognised it. Taking a few steps forward, he studied Grimaud thoughtfully. “Now what’re you doin’ down here, hmm? You shouldn’t have anything to do with this. Where are we?”

He wandered over to look through the door they were sealing up. “That’s the royal vaults. Clever boy! Break out some prisoners as cover, break in this way, seal it back up...smart. Shame there’s gonna be Musketeers waiting for you when you come out.” He gathered some of the tools they were using, planning on slowing them down enough for him to get the Musketeers here to capture them. He couldn’t retrieve the money and jewels that had been stolen, but they could hopefully hunt them down later on. The important thing now was to catch Grimaud before he got away.

Aramis was talking urgently to Athos and d’Artagnan when Porthos arrived back. He walked out of the Fade at their side, already talking. “It was all a distraction, they just needed– what’s goin’ on?”

“Anne has—”

“Aramis,” Athos said warningly.

Aramis scowled at him. “The Queen has been attacked. She’s fine, but…”

“It was my fault,” d’Artagnan finished.

“How’s it your fault?” Porthos asked with a frown.

“One of the prisoners was... ill, in his mind. Confused. Instead of bringing him here I took him to a Black Sisters hospice. He broke out and made it to the palace. He might have killed the Queen, and I—”

“You showed compassion for an ill man,” Athos said over him. “The fault lies with the guards who allowed him passage into the palace. Something is wrong there.”

“Feron is looking into it,” Aramis said, clearly not placing much faith in his abilities. “Treville will make some enquiries, too. The corridors and gardens around An– the queen’s suites were suspiciously quiet.”

Athos nodded. “What are you saying, Porthos? A distraction?”

“Grimaud’s in the cellar of the Chatelet with the Red Guard. They’ve broken into the royal vaults to steal the contents.”

 _“Grimaud?”_ Athos repeated. “What does he have to do with the Red Guard?”

“I thought he was working for Gaston,” d’Artagnan agreed, waving at two cadets to get the horses ready.

“Can’t tell you, but they’re down there rebuilding the wall right now. The prisoners were a distraction.”

d’Artagnan squinted at him for a moment. “Did you find anything about Espoir?”

He shook his head. “Nothing there. He must’ve just been picked up by accident.”

“Accident,” Athos echoed. Porthos shrugged innocently.

d’Artagnan clapped him on the shoulder, hurrying to free Espoir. “Stay here in my room for now,” he told him. “We have to deal with something, but I’ll help you when we get back. My wife may arrive back, be nice.”

“Wife,” he repeated, a little dazed.

“She probably won’t, the queen was quite shaken,” Aramis said, mounting up as the cadets brought the horses out.

“All the better then. Eat something and clean up. We won’t be long.” d’Artagnan mounted as well; Espoir skipped out of his way, nodding.

Porthos caught his attention, passing him a balled up piece of parchment. “Picked up some rubbish in town. Burn it for me, would you?” He caught Espoir’s wrist. “Don’t look. Just burn.”

“Burn it,” Espoir repeated. “Got it.”

The others were already riding out. Porthos mounted up and followed them back towards the Chatelet.

They’d obviously been watched. When they dismounted in the Chatelet yard, everyone they’d been able to spare from watching the prisoners, Marcheaux was waiting. “What are you doing here?” he called. “Where are our prisoners?”

“Under guard at the garrison.” Athos stepped around his horse to meet the man.

“It’s early, you weren’t to be here until—”

“Until you’d covered up your theft?”

Marcheaux’s eyes flickered to a side door and back to Athos. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mmmhmm. d’Artagnan! Keep an eye on the good captain here until I’ve seen what I need to see.” d’Artagnan saluted, coming to take charge of Marcheaux with a grin, and Athos waved the others to follow Porthos into the depths of the building.

Marcheaux blustered for a while, shouting, threatening d’Artagnan. d’Artagnan mostly ignored him. Whatever happened now, the Red Guards wouldn’t be able to touch them again, and that was enough for him.

Eventually he became aware of shouting. Marcheaux had fallen into sulky silence, and d’Artagnan took a step or two away from him to listen. The walls and windows on the courtyard echoed sound around, making it difficult to know where it was coming from or what was being said.

Movement at one of the doors caught his eye, but Marcheaux was moving and in the moment it took him to get him back under control, d’Artagnan missed seeing Grimaud exit. He was coming backwards, shouting and waving a pistol, and he had one arm locked around Aramis’ throat. Aramis was bleeding from the temple, dazed and sluggish.

Athos and Porthos pursued him. Neither seemed willing to approach, watching the pistol warily, though they were trying to spread out to surround him. d’Artagnan took a step closer, waiting for his chance. He wondered briefly where the cadets were, but it didn’t seem important now.

Grimaud twisted to look at him. d’Artagnan froze. Even without his Ability, he could tell that Grimaud would have no hesitation killing Aramis just for the sake of it, even if it meant leaving himself without an escape route. “Marcheaux!” he shouted impatiently.

Marcheaux barged past d’Artagnan, knocking into him deliberately. d’Artagnan let him go. He couldn’t see Athos’ face from here, but neither he nor Porthos raised any objection.

Marcheaux and Grimaud hauled Aramis onto Grimaud’s horse. Aramis was fighting weakly, clearly aware that something was wrong, but Grimaud had no difficulty keeping him under control.

Seated and ready to go, he pointed his pistol at Athos. “This is your fault. You had the chance to stop this. Remember that.” Shifting to Porthos, he added, “If I so much as suspect that you are behind us, I will kill him and leave him in the road. Understand?”

“I’m gonna kill you myself.”

He laughed humourlessly. “Join the very long line, Musketeer.” He wheeled the horse around and galloped away, Marcheaux at his heels.

d’Artagnan hurried to join the others. Athos gave him a distracted look. “The cadets are locked in below. Go and free them and come back to the garrison. We have plans to make.”

Porthos was still scowling after them. “Athos…”

“No.”

“It’s Aramis!”

“And we will retrieve him, but right now you have another mission. Go to the Court of Miracles and see what Sylvie and the other women can tell you about Marcheaux. I don’t understand his part in this.”

Porthos grimaced. “Does it matter?”

“It might. Hurry up. We can’t afford to delay too much. d’Artagnan, go!”

d’Artagnan turned to hurry downstairs, head spinning. Too much had happened too quickly, but the major question he had was what had Grimaud meant about Athos? He shook it off, following the sound of angry shouting to find the cadets and mentally putting the question away to ask later. They had to make a plan now.


	10. Chapter 10

“We can’t bring anyone with us,” Athos said abruptly.

“Why not?”

“They’re needed here. The Red Guard can no longer be relied on. Minister Treville will need people he trusts in the streets to prevent rioting.”

“When could they ever be relied on?” d’Artagnan grumbled, leaning over the map spread out on Athos’ desk. “Do we know where we’re going?” 

“He was heading west…”

“Out of the Chatelet. He could have gone anywhere after that. Does Gaston have any holdings around Paris? If Grimaud is working for him…”

“He has a residence in the city, but I doubt Grimaud would go there. It’s too obvious. If Porthos turns up nothing else we can try it.”

“I have a map of the city, let me…” d’Artagnan headed for the bedroom, startled when he found Espoir standing inside.

“Sorry,” Espoir said immediately. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I promise. You told me to wait here.”

“I did,” d’Artagnan agreed, stepping around him to rifle through his papers until he found the map. “I’m sorry, Espoir, I know I promised to help you, but things have gone very bad here. It’s going to be a while.”

“What happened?” He trailed into the office behind d’Artagnan, careful to stay out of the way as he spread the map on the desk.

“Aramis has been kidnapped,” Athos said shortly. “Here, d’Artagnan.” He pointed to the Palais d’Orleans.

d’Artagnan nodded, making a note on the map. “We’re trying to figure out how to find him now, Espoir, and it’s going to take some time.”

“That makes sense,” he agreed, looking around aimlessly. “Do you need help?”

“Help?” Athos repeated.

“I heard you – again, not eavesdropping, just stuck in that room – you can’t bring any of your men. I can’t help here, I might get arrested again, but I can help you if you’re leaving the city.”

Athos folded his arms, considering him. “Can you fight?”

“Well enough for a bar-room brawl. And I’m a fair shot. Not much skill with a blade, though.”

“You’d accept him as a cadet,” d’Artagnan said, still absorbed in the map. “He needs polish. My uncle didn’t push him the way my father did me.”

Espoir pulled a face at him. “I’m a tracker, though. A good one. If you can find the direction, I can find your man.”

d’Artagnan looked up. “He probably can, at that. He was one of the best trackers in Lupiac.”

“Did your farm animals run away much?”

“Tillage. Not animals. Espoir hunted to supplement our larder. Mostly legally.” He leaned against the table. “He’s another body, Athos, and we don’t have much choice.”

“Is he a body we can trust?” Athos asked bluntly.

Espoir grinned. “Call it selfish, if you want. d’Artagnan’s the only chance of help I have right now, and he can’t help me until you recover Aramis. It’s in my best interests to help you.”

“It may be dangerous,” he warned. “Grimaud wants something and he’s determined to get it from us.”

“It can’t be worse than the Chatelet.”

“It can if Grimaud has help,” Athos said grimly. “But d’Artagnan is correct. We need help and if you are willing, it would be foolish to turn you away.”

“I’m willing.”

d’Artagnan went to the door and shouted for the nearest cadet. “Take Espoir and find him something to wear. Get him a pistol and dagger. Eat something,” he added to Espoir. “Who knows when we’ll have another chance, and I’ve sampled the Chatelet’s offerings.”

“Fair.” He followed the cadet down to the armoury.

d’Artagnan turned back to the map, ignoring Athos for as long as he could. “He’s a good fighter,” he said finally.

“I understand the impulse to protect your family, d’Artagnan, but if he puts the mission at risk…”

“The mission is Aramis. I understand. If Espoir causes trouble I’ll deal with him. We can always send him back here if we have to.”

“Hmm.”

“Let’s concentrate on the plan, yes?”

“Very well.” They bent over the maps together, trying their best to make a plan when they knew no details at all.

Porthos was mostly thinking about Aramis as he stalked through the streets of the Court of Miracles, so he didn’t notice the empty square in front of the house the ladies had chosen. He knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer, letting himself in. He’d been here several times now, with and without Aramis, bringing supplies and checking on Elodie.

“Sylvie?” he called now, pulling off his hat. “Anyone home? It’s Porthos!”

“Porthos!” Sylvie hung over the railing from upstairs. “Is Aramis with you?”

“No. That’s why I’m here. Something wrong?” He took a step or two closer.

“Elodie’s in labour.”

He grimaced. “Aramis’s missing, that’s what I wanted to ask you about. How’s she doing?”

“Not so well,” Sylvie said grimly. “I’ve everyone out looking for a hedgewitch, but no one’s admitting to knowing anything.”

“I’ve seen a birth or two in my time,” he offered. He sent a mental apology to Aramis; he hated to pause the search even a little bit, but this was important, and he knew Aramis would understand. “I can come look. Can’t promise anything, though.”

Sylvie nodded, pointing to a bucket near the door. “Strip and wash up. I’ll explain to Elodie.” She vanished back into the room they’d cleaned for Elodie before he could answer.

Porthos shed his weapons, boots and jerkin, keeping his shirt and tucking it in tightly all around. The water was icy cold, but he scrubbed himself as best he could and headed upstairs still dripping.

Elodie had been labouring for a while. He could see that much. He smiled reassuringly at her, talked gently while he looked things over. He hadn’t lied to Sylvie, he’d seen a few births in his time, both in the Court and out on missions. Aramis was usually there on missions, though, and he hadn’t had to do anything for a while.

“Well?” Sylvie hissed.

“Baby needs turning,” he said briefly. “Elodie? I can see what’s wrong. I’ve seen it fixed, but I’ve never done it myself.”

She laughed breathlessly. “Better’n me.”

“D’you want me to try? It’ll hurt, but if it works, the rest will be easy.”

“Can’t be worse thiiiiiieeeeeeee!” She panted quickly, trying to breathe.

“Just keep thinking that,” he advised her. “Sylvie, get her something to bite on, and get me alcohol.”

“You want to do this drunk?” She was already moving, though.

“I want to clean my hands. Professor Lemay recommends it.” He grinned at Elodie. “ ‘Specially if I’m using my giant hands, hmm?”

“Aramis was making that up,” she said through a groan.

“Let’s hope. Right now, I need you not to push, yeah? I know it’s hard, but you have to hold back for a couple of minutes.”

Sylvie came back in with a roll of cotton and some kind of rotgut. Porthos soaked his hands, let them dry, and got to work. Sylvie soothed Elodie, helping her breathe and move when Porthos needed her to. It took a while – longer than Porthos was comfortable with – but eventually Elodie was pushing again, groaning and fighting, and Porthos caught the baby neatly.

Sylvie grinned, helping him wrap her. “You have a girl, Elodie.”

“A girl? Is she alright?”

“She’s beautiful.” Sylvie nestled her in. “I’ll be back in a minute, alright? You enjoy her.” She took Porthos’ arm, leading him out.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Glad I was here.” He glanced out the window to check the sun, cursing. “I’ve got to get back to the garrison. Where’s my–” He found his clothes and started dressing quickly.

“Looking for Aramis?” Sylvie asked.

“He was taken.” He described Grimaud. “There were men with him, maybe from here. You heard anything? A rumour, even?”

Sylvie studied him for a minute before turning to rummage on a nearby chest, pushing aside wax-spattered parchment until she found what she wanted. “Here.”

Porthos read the flyer quickly. It promised work to anyone who wanted it, listed an address a few hours out of the city, and it was signed with Grimaud’s name.

“You’re an angel,” he told Sylvie.

“Bring Aramis home. Elodie’s gonna need to see him.”

“I’ll make sure he comes here first thing.” He folded the flyer carefully, putting it into his purse. “You didn’t go look for work?”

“Nah. None of us did. Know a couple who did, though.”

“And?”

“Never came back.” She held his gaze.

He nodded slowly. “I’ll see what I can find out. You need money? Things for the baby?”

“We’re set for now. Thank you. Hurry on.”

Porthos nodded, tipped his hat and hurried out. They had an address, now. They could get on the road and bring Aramis home.

He refused to think of any other outcome.

d’Artagnan crouched, studying the ruins below them. Grimaud had chosen well. Although damaged, the building was sturdy enough to provide plenty of cover for his men. They couldn’t see inside, had no idea how many men they were facing or what kind of weapons, but Porthos had pointed out hasty defenses; trees stacked to narrow their approach, screens erected to block their view, holes and gaps the defenders could fire through.

“Is that your friend?” Espoir nodded to a window.

“I think so.” It wasn’t much to pin it on, just an occasional flash of blue, as though someone was moving around on the other side of the window. Never close enough to see properly, tantalisingly near, not quite enough.

“You think so?” he repeated. “Just…” He waggled his fingers.

“No,” he said shortly, tilting his head to try and see better. It certainly looked like a cloak, and it was Musketeer blue, but the way it was moving…

“The others can’t see us. They won’t know.”

d’Artagnan waved him away irritably. “I can’t do it anymore, Espoir. It doesn’t matter how near the others are.”

“What do you mean, you can’t do it?”

“Stay quiet or the guards will hear you,” he snapped, catching Espoir’s arm to drag him down as the nearest guard turned back towards them. Espoir sank to a hunker, barely breathing as the guard walked past further down the slope. This one was alone, but they’d seen plenty of others and there were dogs barking from somewhere in the maze of broken down walls.

“Seven minutes,” Espoir murmured when the guard was out of range.

“It’s not much to break in on,” d’Artagnan agreed. He licked his lips, cupping his hands and cooing loudly.

Nothing, for a full minute. He shook his head. “Aramis would answer if he could.”

“Maybe he just didn’t recognise the noise you made. What were you aiming for, wood pigeon? Sounded more like a diseased duck.”

“Espoir!”

“Sorry. But he’s moving. He can’t be too badly hurt.” Espoir gestured to the window again.

“His cloak’s moving. We don’t know that he’s the one wearing it.” He eyed it again. Something was nagging him about the movement, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

The guard came past again, and once they were clear d’Artagnan gestured to Espoir to back up. “We need to rejoin the others.”

“Do we have enough information to plan the attack?”

“Not remotely, but we have another way to get it. Come on.”

Athos was leaning heavily against a tree, forearm braced on bark and chin braced on hand. d’Artagnan skidded to a stop; Espoir hesitated behind him, uncertain.

“Are you injured?” d’Artagnan demanded.

“No. Did you find Aramis?”

“Maybe. His cloak’s in there, and it’s moving, but I couldn’t make out who was wearing it or who else might be around. The place was built to withstand a siege, it looks like.”

“They do seem quite determined,” Athos agreed.

“Has Porthos…?”

“We have a slight problem with that.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder.

d’Artagnan looked past him with a frown, hurrying back a little further to kneel beside Porthos. “Porthos!”

“It’s nothing.” Porthos waved him off, but he looked grey and the bandana waded against his temple was soaked with blood. “Took a sword hilt to the face, that’s all.”

d’Artagnan peeled the cloth back a little, wincing at the wound. “And Aramis isn’t here, and you can’t go in there.”

“Can so.”

“You can’t stand,” Athos said. He hadn’t moved. Espoir was still hovering uncertainly nearby. “And even if you could, your clothes are covered in blood. There are dogs down there.”

“I could try,” Espoir offered, but it was half hearted at best and d’Artagnan didn’t even look up, just shook his head.

“You’d never make it. Grimaud knows what he’s doing; those are professional soldiers, not mercenaries.”

“Someone has to go in and look. The three of us can’t mount an assault without finding out more.”

“Four of us,” Porthos rumbled.

d’Artagnan seemed to be ignoring him, so Espoir did as well. “We don’t know how many there are, what kind of weapons they have, what the layout is – I want to help you get your friend back, d’Artagnan, but we’d be walking into a slaughterhouse.”

d’Artagnan shook his head, eyes distant. “Someone has to look.”

Porthos looked up sharply, groaning at the sudden movement. “Urgh. d’Artagnan…”

“Someone has to look,” he repeated.

“Athos!” Porthos said more loudly. Athos turned, studying them for a moment before moving to kneel beside them.

“d’Artagnan?”

“Yes.” His voice was very distant, and when Athos reached for him he gripped the older man’s arm tightly.

Espoir found he’d joined them without any intent to do so, crouched at d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Cousin, are you with us?”

“No.” d’Artagnan was still facing towards Porthos, but he was looking somewhere else. Espoir shivered. The culture of fear in Gascony meant that he’d rarely seen his cousin display his Ability unless something was very, very wrong, and this was deeply unsettling.

“Talk to him,” Porthos said sharply to Athos.

Athos nodded slowly. “d’Artagnan, can you see me?”

“Yes.”

“And Porthos, and Espoir?”

He made a vaguely distressed sound. “Yes.”

“Sorry, lad,” Porthos murmured. “Ignore me.”

“Ignore him,” Athos agreed. “Stay with me, and look for Aramis. He’s not far away. Can you see him?”

“It’s not seeing,” Espoir said, helpless and terrified and desperate to hide it.

“We know,” Porthos said softly. “Just let Athos do it. We’ve done it before.”

Jealousy flared through him and vanished. d’Artagnan’s other hand found his arm, squeezing lightly, though his posture never changed.

“Aramis…” That was definitely more distress. “Yes.”

Porthos blew out a breath. “He’s alive.”

“Not much,” d’Artagnan muttered. “One, two, four...ten.”

“Ten,” Athos repeated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. The one you met. One with Aramis. Three nearby. Five patrolling.” His head jerked around suddenly, facing over Espoir’s shoulder. “And Grimaud is coming.”

“He’s not there?” Porthos said in surprise.

“No. But coming.”

“How far?” Athos asked.

“Minutes. Ten, maybe.”

“Good. Come back to us, now, d’Artagnan.”

He shook his head. “No. Need to help.”

“You _have_ helped—”

“Have to finish.”

Espoir frowned. “d’Artagnan, is it like—”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan said placidly.

“He’ll collapse when it’s done,” Espoir told Athos. “And he can’t keep it up for long, either. We need to move.”

“You need to protect d’Artagnan.”

Espoir wavered. d’Artagnan clearly trusted them, but…

“Yes,” d’Artagnan said abruptly, and he scowled out of habit before looking at Athos.

“I can take out the sentries for you. But not for long. Only a few minutes.” Maybe they wouldn’t believe him, maybe they wouldn’t ask...

“We only have a few minutes anyway,” Porthos muttered. “Take them closer, Athos. Espoir can stay with d’Artagnan and do his sentry thing. Leaves you with four to handle. No one’ll be looking this far back, you can pick me up after. Go and get Aramis.”

“Are you certain?” Athos asked, but he was already standing, drawing d’Artagnan up. He went easily, loose limbed and unprotesting, but he was growing paler. Espoir stayed close.

“Yeah. Go bring Aramis home.”

Athos nodded, turning and leading d’Artagnan away. Espoir hesitated long enough to make sure Porthos’ weapons were close to his hands; then he raced after them.


	11. Chapter 11

“You’re sure you can do it?” Athos asked Espoir as they moved. He seemed genuine in his desire to help, but Athos knew nothing about him apart from the fact that d’Artagnan believed in him. And d’Artagnan, ironically for an empath, was not always the best judge of character, too willing to see the best in people.

“I can do it. You’ll have to get them near us, though. I can’t do it at a distance.”

“How near?”

He hesitated as they entered a clearing a handful of paces across. “Here. I can do it here, if they’re all inside the clearing.”

Athos glanced around; they were in the path of one of the patrols, but he didn’t have time to round up the others. He passed d’Artagnan to Espoir, took a couple of steps away, and drew his pistol.

The shot rang out clearly around them and he could hear shouting and ferocious barking from the building. “How are you going to get past the dogs?” Espoir asked nervously, watching the edges of the clearing.

“I’ll decide that when it becomes necessary.” The first guard burst in and he drew his sword, keeping him away from d’Artagnan.

He had taken one down and was fighting two at once when they both froze, collapsing to the ground like marionettes. He looked over his shoulder at Espoir; the remaining two guards were crumpled between them. “Do you need to keep that up?”

“No. It just wears off.” He swore as d’Artagnan lurched forward. “d’Artagnan, no! You can’t go in there.”

Athos caught d’Artagnan’s face in his hands, studying the widely roving eyes and pale skin. “I’m going to get Aramis,” he said clearly. “You need to stay out here.” d’Artagnan didn’t answer, and he looked past him to Espoir. “Can you manage him?”

“Always have before. Go.”

Athos nodded, letting go of d’Artagnan and hurrying through the last line of trees. Some instinct made him linger in the treeline for several heartbeats before sprinting across the open space to the shelter of the closest wall, where he paused to listen intently. No shots, no shouts: he hadn’t been observed.

The nearest way in was to his right, but he moved carefully to the left, stepping over a pile of rubble and listening briefly before stepping through the opening. He was in an unroofed corridor, and there was movement down at the far end. 

He drifted through the complex, always in the right place at the right time, taking out the three remaining guards from behind without a scratch. The dogs kept barking, but they never came near him and he didn’t worry about them. The moment the third guard hit the ground he was heading for the centre of the ruin, not even thinking about it. He was worried that the last man would use Aramis as a shield, but when he reached the room he realised it was much worse than that.

Aramis was shackled tightly, hanging from a high beam. His feet were swinging free of the ground, his ribs and chest drawn tight, struggling to breathe. He didn’t seem to be aware of Athos, or of the other man standing nearby.

“You and your friends are all dead,” the man told him. “You’ll never make it out before Grimaud gets here.”

“I’ll just have to kill you quickly, then.” He drew his sword, glancing briefly at Aramis – still breathing – before lunging to attack.

d’Artagnan was aware of Espoir – he was aware of everything around them – but nothing mattered right now except getting to Aramis before Athos tried to move him. Grimmaud was getting closer and closer, and that was another thing to talk to Athos about, but he wasn’t sure he could find the words. He wasn’t sure he could find any words, apart from the ones he was holding tightly.

He struggled on towards the building, trying to focus on what was in front of him, ignoring Espoir when he could, dragging him when he had to. The increasing worry was grating on him, though it was nice to know Espoir worried about him.

The Dark Place flared briefly, but it was buried under everything else that was going on, and d’Artagnan swept it away without stopping. Athos, unharmed, was turning to Aramis, trying to rouse him, trying to pick the chains on his ankles first.

d’Artagnan dragged Espoir around the final corner into the room. “Wait!” Athos turned, startled, and d’Artagnan groped for Espoir’s arm. “Stop him.”

“What?” Espoir protested.

d’Artagnan blinked; he hadn’t saved any other words. He took a couple of steps closer to Aramis, almost falling over the debris he couldn’t really see any more, swiping irritably at the blood running from his nose. “Stop,” he said again.

“We have to take him down, he’s suffocating,” Athos said, tone calm and emotions roiling. “He’s not even conscious anymore.”

d’Artagnan dragged at Espoir’s arm, trying to make him understand. Espoir frowned at him, and in desperation d’Artagnan waggled his fingers.

“Oh!” Espoir turned to Athos. “He wants me to have him sleep first, I think.”

“He’s already unconscious!”

“It’s going to hurt badly getting him down, though. He’ll rouse.”

Athos studied him. “And you can stop that?”

“Yes.”

“Grimaud,” d’Artagnan managed warningly. The other man was only minutes away.

Athos nodded. “Do it quickly, and get d’Artagnan out of here.”

“Can you manage Aramis?”

“Better than you could. Fast.”

Espoir studied Aramis for a handful of seconds before stepping forward to work a hand under his shirt, searching for skin. Athos didn’t protest; as soon as Espoir stepped back he climbed onto a nearby chair. Espoir braced Aramis from below as Athos worked the shackle chain free from the beam. Aramis slumped lifelessly against the wall, held there by Espoir until Athos jumped off the chair and took him.

“Good. Get d’Artagnan out, now.”

“You have about ten minutes before he wakes,” Espoir told him. “But the guards outside are probably up and around by now. No skin contact.”

“That’s under control. Just get d’Artagnan back into the trees.”

d’Artagnan’s vision was fading, lost under the swirling input. He couldn’t really hear much, wasn’t sure if he was moving or not, couldn’t feel the sticky wetness on his face and neck, but Espoir seemed mostly satisfied. Then the emotions started to fade as well; he lost Grimaud and the men with him, lost Porthos, perched in the tree line ready to take down the guards, lost Athos determinedly carrying Aramis out behind them. Finally he lost Espoir and spiralled into the dark.

Aramis was limp and pliable, the only reason Athos was able to carry him as far as he did. Aramis was hanging bonelessly over his shoulder, arms dangling slackly; Athos knew that wouldn’t be helping the strained muscles, but there was nothing to do about it now. He caught up with Espoir inside the treeline. d’Artagnan appeared unconscious, one arm over Espoir’s shoulder and feet dragging as Espoir hefted him along, mouth and chin stained with blood from a nosebleed.

Porthos stumbled up on Athos’ other side, reaching for Aramis’ head to check him. “What happened?”

“Let’s get further away. Grimaud will search the area as soon as he realises Aramis is missing.”

“I might be able to help with that.” He gestured to the left, towards a rocky slope. “This way.”

Athos followed him without complaint. Espoir dragged d’Artagnan after him, panting but doing his best to keep up. Porthos helped as best he could, but he clearly still wasn’t feeling well.

They reached a narrow cave opening, barely big enough for a man. Athos eyed it doubtfully. “Porthos…”

“Opens up inside,” Pothos told him. “It’s dark, but there’s plenty of space. The cave turns so we can probably risk a torch. If I’m sitting in the entryway Grimaud won’t see it.”

Athos shot a glance at Espoir, who was carefully ignoring them. “What if that doesn’t work?”

“Then it’s a small entryway and I’ll just about fill it.” Porthos shrugged. “Best we can do. I let the horses go, we’ll have to call them back tomorrow.”

Athos nodded, hefting Aramis again. There was a faint groan; Aramis was obviously starting to wake. He ducked his head to enter the cave, careful to shield Aramis’ head as he followed the barely visible walls around a rough corner. He could tell from the feel of the air that he was in a larger space; a moment later Porthos slipped by him, and a moment after that sparks flew and caught on a piece of kindling.

“Keep it low,” Porthos said, “and watch the air, but it should be alright. I’ll go…” He gestured towards the entrance. “Saddlebags’re there in the corner.”

Athos nodded, easing Aramis down. Espoir came to help, bundling a spare cloak under his head and carefully settling his arms by his sides.

“d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, straightening.

Espoir turned to look at the far side of the cave, where d’Artagnan was curled on his side. “If this is anything like last time, he’ll sleep a while. Maybe as much as a day.”

“What hap—” Athos cut himself off as Aramis shifted and immediately groaned in pain. Athos dropped to hunker beside him again, one hand resting on his shoulder. “Hush, Aramis. I’m here. You’re safe, but we must be quiet, understand?”

Aramis tried to reach for him, groaning in pain. “Athos…”

“Try to remain still. Are you injured anywhere? Wounds or bruises?”

He shook his head breathlessly. “It’s all…” He tried to lift his arm, biting back a curse.

Now that he was a bit more aware, Athos let go of his shoulder and started to pick the locks on the wrist chain. The dim light made it difficult, but he freed one wrist. Aramis breathed a string of curses as the shackles pulled loose from torn skin.

“Can you bear the other one?” Athos asked softly. He was glad Porthos and d’Artagnan were a little distance away; dealing with them as well as his own pain would strain Aramis badly.

Aramis nodded, eyes closed tightly. Athos bent over the second shackle, working it carefully free. They’d bitten deeply into Aramis’ wrists and his skin was torn up and bleeding.

Espoir came to join them, offering a waterskin and a length of cloth. “I don’t know the herbs,” he said apologetically.

Aramis jerked at the unexpected voice. “Who…”

“Easy,” Athos said softly. “It’s d’Artagnan’s cousin. He’s helping us. I’m going to wash your wrists; it will hurt badly.” Porthos whistled quietly from the entryway and he grimaced. “Espoir, give me your glove.”

Espoir obeyed without question and Athos turned back to Aramis. “We are hunted and must be silent,” he murmured, holding up the glove. Aramis bit down hard on it, watching closely as Athos wet the cloth and began his work.

After a moment Espoir muttered an apology and carefully pressed a hand to Aramis’ throat. Aramis collapsed, out cold again. “Should have thought of that earlier,” Espoir muttered, carefully straightening Aramis’ head to save his neck from straining any more. “Work fast. I won’t be able to do that again for a while.”

Aramis ripped a piece of the cloth free and wetted it before handing it to him. “Clean d’Artagnan’s face. Let’s not scare Aramis too badly when he sees him.” Espoir nodded and went to do it, and Athos concentrated on Aramis’ wrists, cleaning them carefully and wrapping them.

Porthos whistled again just as Aramis started to wake up. Athos found the waterskin and had it ready, holding it for Aramis when he clearly couldn’t grip it himself. “Is there something in your herb bag that will help you?” he murmured.

“Yes. Bring…” He tried to reach for the bag and groaned again.

“Stop moving,” Athos scolded gently, getting up to look through the saddlebags. “You must be very badly strained.”

Aramis snorted pained agreement. “Where’s…”

“Porthos is keeping watch. d’Artagnan is resting.” With the danger mostly over, Athos lit a second torch for Espoir before bringing back Aramis’ saddlebag.

“Resting?” Aramis repeated.

“We’re worrying about you right now, not him. I’m going to help you sit up.”

The effort of sitting up effectively distracted Aramis. Athos got him settled against the wall, not liking how pale he’d gone, and set the bag and torch where he could see. 

Aramis tried to reach for the bag again and caught his breath. “Show me,” he said after a moment.

Athos took out the little bags and pouches one by one, letting him look and sniff. Finally Aramis nodded. “There, that’s willow.”

“We can’t heat the water.”

“It will do cold. Not as well, but better than nothing.”

Athos hesitated, looking at it. “This will help with the pain?”

“Yes.”

“Will it help you sleep?” Aramis made to shrug and caught himself just in time. “What will?”

“The only sedative I carry is poppy.”

Athos rooted through the pouches until he found it. “How much?”

“Athos, poppy is dangerous -”

“You must sleep.” Aramis looked at him steadily. “We are none of us at our best,” Athos said carefully. “I know that you will want to help us, and you must be rested for that.”

Atamis tensed, shivering a little at the pain. “Porthos? d’Artagnan?”

“In no danger, either of them.” He held up the poppy again.

He was surprised when Aramis gave in, but that just meant he’d been right and Aramis needed it. Athos found a heel of bread in one of the bags and made him eat it before giving him the herb mixture.

It took effect quickly, as Aramis was clearly exhausted by everything. Athos sat for a few minutes, making sure he was still breathing. Eventually he got up and went to check on Porthos. 

The forest had been quiet for a while when Athos slipped out to join Porthos. “All clear?”

“Seems to be. Grimaud got all worked up, striding around cursing, but he never even looked this way. None of them did. There’ll probably be another search in the morning, we should sit tight.”

“Sound plan, although we’re likely to be cold by then. How are you feeling?” He tilted Porthos’ head to examine the wound.

“Stopped bleeding. Little dizzy, still, but not sick, and I held the Fade no problem.”

“Good signs, both. I’ll see what we have to eat. I’d rather save the willow bark for Aramis, if you think you can manage without.” He started to rise.

Porthos caught his arm to halt him. “What happened?”

“What happened?” he repeated; stalling or genuinely not understanding, Porthos couldn’t tell which.

“To Aramis,” he said patiently. “What did they do to him?”

“Ah.” He sank back down to sit. “I found him in a high ceilinged room. Grimaud’s men shackled his wrists and hooked the chain over a high beam. Aramis must have been on a chair or table at the time. Then they removed the prop.”

“And let him hang?” Porthos said softly, skirting the idea, unwilling to picture it.

“And let him hang. He was not conscious when I came into the room. I don’t know how long he was unconscious. Not long, is my guess; too easy to suffocate, and Grimaud wanted him alive.”

Porthos swallowed a couple of times. “But he’s breathing’ now?”

“Unobstructed, as far as I can tell. He’s having difficulty moving. He must have strained almost every muscle in his body. Luckily, muscles heal relatively quickly. His wrists are torn from the shackles. They left his boots on, so his ankles seem fine. And at least they did not weight him down.”

The clinical tone seemed wrong, although Porthos knew it was Athos’ way of dealing with things. “He’s sleeping?”

“He took willow bark and poppy. We will assess him in the morning. If we are lucky, Grimaud will give up the search and we can leave. If we are very lucky, Treville will have sent a rescue party. Do you think you’ll be fit to travel?”

“Bit of rest, something to eat. I’ll be fine.”

“Good. Then I shall find you something to eat and relieve you here. Tell Espoir to get some rest and relieve me in a few hours.”

“Do we trust him?”

“We’ve little choice, and he seems genuine in his desire to help d’Artagnan. Aramis is unlikely to be able to move on his own tomorrow and it would be difficult for the two of us to manage the two of them.”

“True enough,” Porthos said with a sigh. “Long as he does what he’s told, then.”

“If not, you can correct his behaviour any way you like,” Athos promised, standing again.

“Careful, Athos. You know my sense of justice.”

“I count on it.” He nodded stiffly and went back inside.

Porthos let out one long, shuddering breath, allowing himself a few heartbeats to feel the full horror of what had happened to Aramis. Then he shoved it aside. They had other things to worry about right now.


	12. Chapter 12

Aramis kept himself asleep for as long as he could. He didn’t remember exactly what had happened, but he knew that pain and unpleasantness waited when he woke up, and he was eager to put it off for as long as he could.

Eventually his body rebelled, and thirst drove him awake. He blinked at a low, rocky ceiling, trying to figure out where he was.

Someone murmured nearby, and Athos’ face intruded in front of the ceiling. “Are you awake?”

Aramis reached for his arm and swung into a seated position. At least, that was the plan. The moment he moved, a wave of pain crashed over him, burying him, almost sweeping him back into unconsciousness.

Athos was holding his shoulders when he began to be aware of things outside his body again. “Ath—” God, even breathing was unbearable.

“I have willow tea heating. Only bear it for a few moments longer,” Athos murmured. “Can you tell if anywhere hurts more than the rest?”

Aramis couldn’t spare the attention to glare at him, but the wave was starting to ebb away. He let himself float on it, trying to feel each part of himself and judge the pain.

“Side,” he said finally. “Shoulders. What…”

“You were effectively crucified,” Athos said bluntly, letting him sip slowly from a waterskin. “You were unconscious when I found you, and you had been in their hands most of two days by then. Do you remember anything?”

Aramis poked at the memories and very quickly decided he didn’t want them. “Flashes. Why…”

Athos shook his head. “Details later. How are your wrists?”

Sore, now that he thought about it, but not as badly as the rest of him. He pulled a face, knowing Athos would understand his meaning.

“That’s good. When the tea has started to work I’ll wash them again.” He turned as another figure came up behind him.

Aramis squinted. That wasn’t Porthos, too slim, nor d’Artagnan, too short and too blond. Torchlight fell across his features, but it didn’t help; he wasn’t a cadet, that was as far as he could get.

Athos looked back at him, following his gaze. “It’s Espoir,” he said. “He’s d’Artagnan’s cousin. He became entangled in our rescue mission.”

“Oh.” He remembered, now, but he’d only seen the man in passing in the garrison courtyard. “Thank—” He had to stop to breathe, groaning as his sides protested.

Espoir seemed to get the gist anyway, nodding. “Do you need help?” he asked Athos. “Sitting him up?”

Athos turned back to study Aramis. “We’d better, I think. It will hurt,” he said directly to Aramis.

Aramis took a couple of breaths, as deeply as he could, and nodded. “Go.”

They were as careful as they could be, but he still whited out at the burning pain. He came around slumped against Athos’ chest, head resting on his shoulder, trying to breathe. They’d taken off everything but his undershirt and braes, he realised dimly, and almost wept in gratitude. The weight of his jerkin might have broken him.

Something occurred to him and he tried to push back. Athos settled him carefully against a rock wall, padded with his own clothes. “What is it?”

“Porthos?” He was rarely far away when Aramis was injured.

“On watch. Grimaud has not given up the search, but as long as Porthos is out there we are safe.”

“Grimaud…” Achingly slowly, he lifted one hand to Athos’ arm, trying to grip it. His fingers wouldn’t close. “You.”

“I?”

“Wants you.”

Athos helped him take the willow tea and a couple of bites of cheese. “He took you.”

“Easy. Wants you. All for you.” Even those few words wore him out.

“Do you know why?”

Aramis tilted his gaze to one side to signal _no._

“I do.”

He jerked at the new voice, catching his breath as he was forcibly reminded why that was a bad idea. Athos steadied him, looking over his own shoulder to the other side of the... cave, it was a cave, he could see a little more clearly now.

“You should be sleeping,” Athos said.

“Have been.”

Aramis followed Athos’ gaze, letting himself slump a little to one side to see past him. d’Artagnan was sitting cross-legged against the far wall, fingers moving restlessly through the dirt. His voice, though – he sounded calm and dreamy, and it tugged at Aramis’ memory. When had he heard that before?

“Eat, then. We won’t move on until Porthos tells us it’s safe.”

“It will be soon. Grimaud has a timetable.”

Matter-of-fact and still not completely with them. _When_ had…

Athos made sure Aramis could sit alone and crossed the cave to hunker in front of d’Artagnan. “What timetable? For what?”

“I’m not that deep. Something to occupy him. Until he finds you.”

Swimming. That was it; d’Artagnan sounded like this after swimming, when his Ability was loosed from its usual tight constraints. Did that mean…?

“Me?” Athos repeated.

d’Artagnan looked up at him. Aramis, watching closely, was almost sure Athos recoiled from him, just the tiniest bit. What could be in d’Artagnan’s expression to unsettle Athos like that?

“The first time we met.”

That seemed to be all he was going to say. Aramis thought back to it.

“I am the future,” he offered. It had never made any sense to them, and they’d stopped trying to figure it out very quickly, occupied with other things.

d’Artagnan nodded, then shook his head. “Yes, future. _Your_ future.” He gestured to Athos.

“Grimaud is a warmonger and a killer. How is he my future?”

“Because he is you.” d’Artagnan’s voice was still level as he studied the dirt he was raking up. “He has the same Ability as you. And he is old, Athos, and tired. So tired.”

Aramis inhaled sharply, choked on the pain and slumped to one side as he tried to recover. Espoir came to help him sit back up, bringing a waterskin for him to sip from as he calmed.

Aramis nodded questioningly towards d’Artagnan. Espoir shrugged, murmuring, “Should be okay. Takes time.”

“Is he right?”

“Always.”

Athos was trying to get more information from d’Artagnan. He’d lost interest, though, more concerned with the stones at his knees. Aramis relaxed as much as he could, trying to make sense of it all.

d’Artagnan fell asleep after a while, without imparting any more revelations or expanding on the one he’d already given them. Espoir came back to check on him, helping Athos to settle him down on the cave floor. “He should be more or less himself next time he wakes. That’s what happened last time.”

Aramis stirred a little. “Last time?”

Espoir nodded absently. “When Adèle went missing.”

Athos frowned, glancing at Aramis to see if he knew the story. He got wide eyes and a head shake in return. “Adèle?”

Espoir looked up, looking from him to Aramis and back. “Yes, Adèle. His sister.” Athos blinked – he hadn’t realised d’Artagnan had any siblings – and Espoir barked a laugh. “I thought you were his friends. You didn’t know about me, you don’t know about Adèle. Do you actually know anything about him?”

“We know what he has chosen to share,” Aramis said. “We don’t pry.”

Athos was uncomfortably reminded of his surprise on learning that d’Artagnan’s wages were going back to his farm workers in Gascony. “Younger?”

“That would be a good trick, since his mother died giving birth to him,” Espoir said shortly. “Adèle’s about a year older than he is. She lives in Calais with her husband. At least, that’s the last place I heard of them being, but the husband had spoken of moving to England.”

“What happened when she went missing?” Athos asked.

“I was nine. So d’Artagnan would have been eleven or twelve. Adèle wasn’t supposed to go to town on her own, but she wanted to sell her chicks before they got too old and Emmy was busy – that’s their older sister,” he added, tone patronizing. “She was fifteen then, I suppose. Raised them both. Adèle slipped off without telling anyone, and no one realised for a couple of hours. They mounted a search, and the townsfolk helped. She hadn’t made it that far,” he added reflectively.

“She was thirteen?” Aramis asked.

“Or twelve. I don’t remember exactly. My uncle didn’t much bother with their birthdays after my aunt died.”

Aramis leaned his head back against the wall. “Bad things happen to twelve year old girls away from home.”

“That’s what everyone was worried about. And d’Artagnan could tell, of course. I wasn’t allowed to search, but he did, and the second time they came back home to regroup he went into the barn. And a few minutes later he came out, looking like...” He gestured vaguely towards d’Artagnan. “He started walking, and he wouldn’t stop. When my uncle tried d’Artagnan just went around him, and when my father went to help he attacked them until he got past and then just kept walking. My uncle was more worried about someone seeing him, so my father and I followed him and my uncle covered for us. d’Artagnan went straight to Adèle; one of the tenants had started digging a new well, abandoned it when he didn’t hit water and covered it over, and the cover had broken when she walked on it. She wasn’t hurt, much. I think most of the chicks died, though. d’Artagnan walked straight to the well, told her we were there, sat down and fell over. Slept for all the rest of that day and into the next one.”

It was very like d’Artagnan, Athos had to agree, mysterious siblings aside. “He couldn’t have found her normally?”

“He didn’t have much range in those days. Could tell everything about you if you were nearby, but once you got any distance…” He shrugged. “And Uncle was always telling him to hide, shield, don’t use it, don’t be seen. I got the easier end of that stick.”

He nodded. “You should get some rest. You’ve been up for a long time.”

“So’s Porthos.”

“I’ll relieve Porthos shortly. Go on.”

Espoir shrugged and settled next to d’Artagnan, apparently falling asleep quickly. Athos sat for a moment before moving to join Aramis.

“He didn’t offer,” Aramis said before he could say anything. “And we don’t pry. You know that.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “We’ve never been good at talking about the past, have we.”

“He probably thought it unlikely that Adèle would arrive in Paris seeking revenge.”

Athos didn't flinch. “I suppose so. Is it something we should ask about?”

“I think if he has not told us, we should not bring it up. I’ll speak to Constance when we’re back in Paris.”

“Do you think she knows?”

“I think she’s more likely to have asked than are we.”

“True.” Athos sighed. “I’m going to send Porthos in. He suffered a slight head injury yesterday but seemed much better today. Do you need him to stay at a distance?”

As he’d hoped, the need to answer derailed whatever anger Aramis felt on learning about Porthos’ injury. “No. So long as we’re not shoulder to shoulder and he isn’t bleeding out, it should be alright.”

“Good. If he is too close, tell him if you can. It won’t help you to be doing a Healing right now.”

“I’ll be good.”

“I hope so.” Athos squeezed his shoulder lightly and made to stand.

“Athos.”

He hesitated, wondering if he could get away with putting this conversation off.

“We will talk about this,” Aramis warned him.

“There is no need to talk about it,” Athos said, but he sat back down.

“We have always feared—”

“ _You_ have always feared. I am not afraid of it.”

Aramis studied him closely. “We don’t know how old Grimaud is. But d’Artagnan implied it was very old. Perhaps hundreds of years.”

Athos thought for a moment before shaking his head. “I need some time to find my words, Aramis. We will talk about it. For now, know only that if it is true, I don’t fear it.”

Aramis nodded slowly. “Take your time, my friend. But we will discuss it.”

“Perhaps d’Artagnan will have more information when he wakes.”

“Perhaps.”

Athos nodded, and stood, and went to send Porthos inside. With any luck, they’d be on the way home tomorrow.

d’Artagnan woke to the once-familiar sensation of shields around his mind and the almost-forgotten feeling of the other Musketeers around him. He lay for a moment, blinking at the ceiling above his head; then he swung upright, looking around.

Sudden lightheadedness almost knocked him over again, but he hung on until it calmed before looking around. Espoir was sprawled near him – why was he still here? – Porthos asleep a few feet away, Aramis across the cave with almost all their blankets and spare clothes padding him. d’Artagnan nodded slowly. His memories were a little muddled, but he retained enough to know that Aramis needed as much help as possible right now.

Athos was on guard outside their little bubble. d’Artagnan stood, breathed through the brief spike of lightheadedness, and picked his way out to join him. There was a piece of bread and cheese sitting on someone’s pack, and he took it with him as he went.

Athos glanced over – a quick, thoroughly assessing look – before turning his attention back to the forest. “How are you feeling?”

“As though I’ve been out for a while.” He took a bite of the bread. It was stale and hard and the cheese tasted off, but he ate every bit of it anyway. It felt like a while since he’d eaten. Athos passed him a water skin to wash it down with.

“And how are you feeling?” he asked with a different tone, when d’Artagnan set the skin aside.

“I seem to be feeling as well as I ever did.” He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. He’d adjusted, but he’d never quite felt like himself without his empathy, even though it had unquestionably made things easier for him.

“Are Grimaud’s men still here?”

He glanced through the trees towards the fort. “Two of them are, but they’re about to leave. How is Aramis?”

“Weak, but gaining in strength all the time.”

“That’s good.”

“Espoir was very useful to us.”

“That’s good,” he repeated, rather more surprised. He hadn’t expected Espoir to stay any longer than he had to.

Athos lowered his voice, although there was no one near enough to hear him. “His Ability was especially useful.”

d’Artagnan waited out the instinctive denial. “He told you?”

“Not in any specific way, but he used it to stop the guards, and to keep Aramis from feeling the pain as we moved him.”

“Yes, it would do both of those things,” he murmured. “I’m glad he felt safe enough to show you.”

“How much do you remember?”

“Very little,” he admitted. “Something about dogs? I was telling you which way to go…”

“You spoke about Grimaud.”

He shivered. “I remember that. I– no, I don’t remember telling you. But I remember what I felt, mostly.”

“And what did you feel?”

He sorted through the memory. “He’s very old.”

“You implied that he shares my Ability.”

“Or something very like it,” he agreed. “Something has kept him alive long after it should have. He’s so empty inside.”

“Do you have any sense of how old he is?”

d’Artagnan closed his eyes, trying to remember. He never retained the actual feelings, only the memory of them, and this one was fading fast.

“No,” he said finally. “Hundreds, certainly, but…”

Athos nodded. “I don’t suppose it matters much.”

“I don’t suppose it does,” d’Artagnan agreed distantly. He couldn’t quite tell how Athos felt about it, but he didn’t seem upset or afraid, and d’Artagnan was happy to leave it there until Athos was ready to speak.

One memory remained, bright and shining. “He wants you very badly.”

“He may find me in the garrison at any time. Can you travel?” 

“Yes. You want to start back today?”

“I think we’d better, if Aramis can stand it. Whatever Grimaud was going to do, he may come back, and I don’t wish to still be here if he does.” He reached for the waterskin, taking a quick sip. “You’d better lose your cousin.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose I had.”

“He’s wanted in Paris,” Athos reminded him.

“I know. I just… It was nice having him here.”

“We could not have saved Aramis without him,” Athos agreed. “Not without sacrificing you, at least.”

d’Artagnan nodded, rising to his feet. “I’ll go start waking people. Grimaud’s last two men are leaving; it should be clear by the time we’re ready to leave.”

“Very well.” Athos stayed where he was anyway. d’Artagnan squeezed his shoulder lightly and went inside.

Porthos woke up to find d’Artagnan and Espoir moving around, packing up. d’Artagnan tossed him an apple in passing. “There’s not much for breakfast, I’m afraid.”

“Been meaning to lose weight anyway.” He took a bite, looking over at Aramis. “How’re you doing?”

“On the plus side, very little pain.”

“And the other side?”

“Very little strength,” he said with a sigh, lifting one arm. With an obvious effort, he got it to shoulder height before dropping it again.

“That’ll come back. Think you can ride?”

“Ride, yes, if we’re careful. Steer?” He shrugged.

“We’ll help,” d’Artagnan said, pushing Porthos off his blanket and rolling it. “It’s not that far back to Paris.”

“Yeah, Grimaud was pushing things a bit,” Porthos agreed thoughtfully.

“He has other plans,” d’Artagnan said. “Couldn’t leave them for too long.”

“Plans for us?”

“I don’t think so. It’s hard to say. There’s a lot going on in him.”

Espoir hunkered beside Aramis with a cup. “Can you manage this?”

Aramis looked at it, then at him. “You went into my herbs.”

“It’s only willow tea,” he protested. “Athos has been giving it to you for days, I just thought—”

“He’s teasing,” d’Artagnan told him. “Just give him the cup and come find your things. We need to get you on your way.”

“Do we?” Aramis asked, frowning as he carefully closed his hand around the cup.

“Unless we want him hanged in Paris, yes,” d’Artagnan said shortly.

“Your Ability, Espoir,” Aramis said, ignoring d’Artagnan. “Does it always send people asleep? Can you use it to simply block a body’s signals and leave them awake?”

“I can,” Espoir says warily, “but the person tends to panic.”

“How long does it last?”

“Not very. A few minutes.”

“Long enough, say, for a coughing fit to pass?”

“Oh, Aramis,” Porthos breathed. “That’s dangerous.”

“A new situation for us,” he agreed.

“What are we talking about?” d’Artagnan asked, looking warily from one to the other.

Porthos glared at Aramis, who ignored him. “King Louis—”

“Aramis!” Porthos snapped.

“One more count of treason won’t hurt me,” Aramis told him. “Nor darken my soul any more than it is already.” He turned back to d’Artagnan and Espoir. “Louis has the white plague. He won’t live very long, months at most, but the pain is starting to overcome the medicine he can safely take. A new valet, who could help him through the attacks…”

“And catch the white plague doing it,” d’Artagnan said flatly.

“Not to mention, using my Ability on the king is treason,” Espoir agreed. “I’ve just escaped hanging, I’m not that eager to walk back onto the gallows.”

“The king wouldn’t know you were doing it. The medicine—”

“Espoir could catch it,” d’Artagnan repeated.

“Or be caught and hanged. I don’t want anyone to forget about the hanging,” Espoir added.

“You could catch it,” Aramis agreed.

“Or be—”

“Or be hanged, yes. But you could also help ease the king’s pain.” He eyed d’Artagnan. “What would Emmy suggest you do?”

Porthos almost missed d’Artagnan’s brief freeze. “Who’s Emmy?” he asked with a frown.

d’Artagnan glared at Espoir, who spread his hands defensively. “How was I supposed to know they didn’t know?”

“I don’t know, did you try thinking about it?”

“Would that have helped with Adèle?”

Porthos whistled sharply. d’Artagnan sighed, rubbing his face. “Emiline and Adèle are my sisters, Porthos. My older sisters. Espoir obviously mentioned them to Aramis.”

“And Athos,” Aramis said helpfully.

d’Artagnan grimaced. “And Athos.”

“If it helps, Espoir was very upset with us for not knowing already.”

“No.” d’Artagnan glared at Espoir. “It doesn’t help.”

Porthos leaned forward. “Oi. Cousin. Why’s he angry?”

“Because Emmy—”

“Espoir!” d’Artagnan said warningly.

“Married a Vicomte,” Espoir continued, edging closer to Porthos and away from d’Artagnan, “and he doesn’t approve of us. Not classy enough. He tried to time the wedding so that d’Artagnan and his father wouldn’t be able to attend.”

“And Emmy goes along with this?”

“No. She doesn’t. But d’Artagnan does, so that dear Gustav doesn’t take it out on her.”

“Espoir, for the love of God…” d’Artagnan groaned.

“The other sister?” Porthos asked. “Edele?”

“Adèle. I don’t know. They always got on fine.”

“We still get on fine,” d’Artagnan said, aiming the words at the roof since no one else was listening.

“When’s the last time you talked to her?” Espoir asked him. “She still in Calais?”

“I’ve been on the front lines for the last four years. Not much time for friendly chatting.”

“Oi.” Porthos waited for d’Artagnan to meet his eyes.

“It’s fine,” d’Artagnan told him, holding his gaze. “They’re both happy, and that’s what matters. Now can we please leave it alone? What are you doing, Espoir? Back to Paris or back to Gascony?”

Espoir looked between them. “I’d be safe?”

“From the gallows,” Aramis said. “We can promise that much.”

“Can you get him hired?” Porthos asked curiously. If Aramis was planning to go near the Queen...

“Constance can. She knows the right people. And I imagine it’s difficult for Louis to keep his valets at present.”

He snorted. “Imagine so. Up to you, then, boy. I’ll go tell Athos we’re about ready. You have that long to decide.”


	13. Chapter 13

Espoir rode back to Paris with them. d’Artagnan spent most of the time rebuilding and testing his shields. His rosary was long gone, lost on some battlefield somewhere, and he’d stopped wearing the bracelet made of Constance’s hair when it stopped being necessary. For now he fell back on an old habit and built his shields on the other three – or two, rather, carefully leaving Aramis out for now.

It was nice to have Espoir along, though. Mindful of d’Artagnan’s reactions, he didn’t give away any more secrets, but they talked a little as they rode. Espoir knew how most of the people they’d known growing up were doing; they’d mostly married each other, taken over their parents’ businesses and begun having children. d’Artagnan hadn’t expected anything else, but it was nice to hear.

Aramis endured the ride back. They weren’t able to find him a cart, so he rode behind Porthos. They had to strap him on after a while, and he grumbled loudly. “Why is it never pretty women who want to tie me up?”

“We could tie you up and leave you,” Porthos suggested. “Maybe a pretty woman would come along.”

“Or a pretty man,” d’Artagnan suggested. Aramis looked thoughtful, and he smiled. “We’re not far from Paris, anyway. A couple of hours.”

“And are you alright?” Aramis asked, distracted as d’Artagnan had meant him to be.

“So far. It’s mostly just a vague sense that there’s noise over that way.” He waved vaguely in the direction of Paris. “We’ll see how it goes when we reach it.”

It seemed to go quite well. Far from being rusty, d’Artagnan’s shields seemed refreshed by the long period of rest, and they reached the garrison without any real difficulty. d’Artagnan left Espoir helping Aramis down and went looking for Constance.

She met him on the steps, glancing automatically over the others before leaning into a hug. d’Artagnan tried not to react. He’d known she was different, but the sharp edges in her emotions took him by surprise.

“What do you need, Aramis?” she called down the stairs.

“Rest. Perhaps a bath. And compresses. Clairmont knows what to do.”

Constance nodded to the nearest cadet, who took off at a run. “Who’s your friend?” she asked, squinting at Espoir. “New recruit?”

Of course, Constance hadn’t met him; she’d been in the palace with Anne. d’Artagnan made a mental note to find Césaire, the cadet who’d helped Espoir, and swear him to secrecy. “Not quite.” He drew her down the stairs, gesturing Espoir over. “Constance, meet my cousin Espoir, come seeking his fortune. Espoir, my wife Constance.”

“Madame d’Artagnan.” Espoir bent over her hand. “I’m glad to meet you. We never thought anyone would be able to tame d’Artagnan.”

“Get on with you,” she said, but she was smiling. “Seeking your fortune? There’s not much fortune in soldiering.”

“Not soldiering,” d’Artagnan said carefully. “I heard that Louis is having trouble keeping a manservant. Espoir worked for our Intendant for a time.” Not quite a lie; he had worked for the Intendant, in the stables, for a handful of months. “Can you put in a good word?”

“You want him to walk into a manservant’s position?”

“Well, whatever you can get him.”

“Don’t put yourself out, Madame,” Espoir said quickly. “We knew it was a faint hope. I’m sure I’ll find something.”

Constance heaved a sigh. “Two sets of d’Artagnan eyes. The palace won’t know what hit it. I’ll ask around, but no guarantees!”

“Of course not,” Espoir agreed. “Thank you, Madame.”

“For now you can help with that bath, and then there’s other things to do. Bed and board.”

“More than fair.” He nodded and headed for the kitchen.

Constance’s smile immediately dropped and she rounded on d’Artagnan. “What are you playing at?”

“I can’t explain right now,” he said carefully, eyes flickering around the busy courtyard. “But it’s important he get something in the king’s apartments.”

“Important for whom?”

“For Louis, primarily.”

She studied him for another minute. “You’d better explain later. I’ll go now.”

“Thank you.” He waved at Brujon to escort her. “I’ll see you later.”

“You’d better.” She stalked off to find her shawl. d’Artagnan took two seconds to breathe, tested his shield quickly, and went to see if Aramis needed any help.

Treville’s message came in as they were getting Aramis settled. Athos left him in Clairmont’s care – he hadn’t realised the young man was interested in field medicine; he really had to pay more attention and stop letting d’Artagnan handle it – and the three of them headed for the palace. A footman was waiting for them and they were ushered into the throne room straight away.

Athos was immediately glad that Aramis wasn’t there. Louis was on the throne, and to a casual observer nothing would seem amiss, but they could see the sheen of sweat, the colour in his cheeks and the stiffness in his posture. Anne and Treville, one on either side of him, were both watching him closely, alert for any problems.

“I’m quite sure the Captain of the Musketeers is supposed to be available when I want him,” Louis said, apparently to Treville. “Isn’t that part of the job description? You were always around when I wanted you.” He added in a mutter “Plenty of times I didn’t, too,” and Treville pretended to ignore it.

“It is sometimes necessary for the Captain to leave on important missions, Majesty,” he said blandly. “I’m certain Athos has just returned from such a mission.”

“Indeed, your majesty, I was on the trail of the man behind the Chatelet break-in.” Feron was nowhere in sight, he noted; hopefully in disgrace after his Red Guard helped with the break in and robbery.

“And did you catch him?” Louis demanded.

“No, Sire, but we—”

Louis held up a hand to cut him off. “Of course not,” he agreed. “My vaunted Musketeers. Luckily, there’s still someone in this palace capable of fulfilling my wishes.” He waved to a footman.

d’Artagnan hissed in a breath, but he didn’t have the chance to speak before Gaston sauntered in, followed by two guards hauling a hooded and chained prisoner. Gaston stopped before the dias to bow extravengently; the prisoner was flung to the floor nearby. “Your Majesty.”

“Get on with it, Gaston,” Louis said wearily, rubbing his forehead. Gaston nodded, turning to Athos.

“My sources have found this man. He’s a notorious thief and fence and handled some of the stolen items. He’s agreed to help you reclaim them in exchange for leniency from the Crown.”

“Has he, indeed,” Athos said.

“Of course he has.” d’Artagnan moved to free the hood. “He’s not well known for his loyalty, after all.”

Porthos growled, dragging the prisoner to his feet and shaking him. “What’re you doing in Paris? You’re meant to be on a Spanish galleon!”

“Porthos!” Bonnaire squeaked, hanging helpless in his grip. “My friend! How nice to see you. No hard feelings, eh?”

“No hard—”

“Porthos,” Athos said warningly. Porthos scowled, dropping Bonnaire to the floor in a heap. The pirate started to speak; d’Artagnan, kneeling beside him, held up the keys and gestured for silence. Bonnaire seemed to think that was an acceptable trade, as he stayed silent while d’Artagnan freed the many locks.

“I know that man, don’t I?” Louis asked. Anne glanced worriedly at Treville; Louis was visibly ailing now.

“He is a mildly accomplished thief,” Athos said smoothly. “He’s been before your Majesty’s justice before. We’re well acquainted, and I’m sure he’ll make every effort to help us. _Every effort_ ,” he repeated pointedly as Bonnaire gained his feet again.

“Oh yes! Of course! If I had only known those jewels belonged to your august self, I would have immediately brought them here myself. I was deceived,” Bonnaire said. “I’m too trusting of people, your majesty, that’s my fault. Even the man who has betrayed me before, my soft heart insists that perhaps this time he will keep his word. I’m certain her majesty knows what I mean.”

Anne eyed him until he started to squirm, then looked across at Treville. “This is the only lead we have?”

“For now, your majesty. He’s given us some other names, I have people looking into them.”

“Good.” She turned to the king. “Louis, why don’t we go and find the Dauphin? It’s time for his nap, and you know he likes it when we rest with him.”

“You have other duties to attend to,” Louis said. “Well done, Gaston. If this Bonner man finds my jewels you will have gone a long way to regaining my trust.”

Gaston bowed low. “That is all I long for, my dear brother.”

“Hmm. Come, Treville.” He stood under his own power, but by the time they reached the door he was leaning heavily on Treville.

d’Artagnan jerked Bonnaire around, keeping him from seeing. “You sold the jewels in Paris?”

“Some of them,” Bonnaire hedged.

“ _Some_ of them?” Porthos repeated angrily. “Where else are we going, then?”

“I have customers in many places!” Bonnaire squawked.

“And you ain’t had them but three days. How far could they get?”

“Let’s find a map,” d’Artagnan suggested, firmly ‘escorting’ Bonnaire out. Porthos glanced at Athos before following him.

Athos approached Anne, still standing, a little lost, on the dias. “Your majesty?”

She jolted, looking at him in surprise. “Yes, Athos.”

He bowed his head a little. “Do you need anything? We may be gone for some time, but I can send the cadets…”

“No.” She didn’t look past him, but he was aware of Gaston openly listening to them. “Thank you, Athos, but I need no help.”

“Of course.” Dropping his voice, he added, “Constance is in the palace at the moment.”

“Hurry on your mission,” she said, face revealing nothing. “We must retrieve our stolen property as soon as possible.”

“Of course, your majesty.” He bowed deeply, backing away a step before turning. He tipped his hat as he passed Gaston, pretending not to notice the rage flaring in the Duc’s eyes at the difference. “Monsieur.”

“Captain. Good luck with Bonnaire.”

“Your kind thoughts are appreciated, but I’m sure they won’t be needed. We have dealt with him before.”

“And yet he is still on the loose and selling our jewels.”

Athos paused long enough to correct him. “The Royal jewels, you mean.”

Gaston let it sit a moment. “Yes, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed, turning away. Porthos would have the information they needed by now. He pushed Gaston’s behaviour to the back of his mind, making a mental note to discuss it with Treville, and hurried away.


	14. Chapter 14

“You sold jewels here?” Athos studied the house.Three days hunting down jewels in Paris while Aramis recovered, and now they were a day and half’s ride away, at the estate of the last of Bonnaire’s customers.

“ _A_ jewel,” Bonnaire corrected him. “The Vicomte is a good customer, but a haggler. He happened to be in Paris that day, and he bought one as a gift for his wife.”

“You’ve dealt with him before?”

“Is it so strange?”

He grunted. “Stay quiet, then. Let’s go.”

The guards on duty were watching as they walked up. Athos halted them a few feet from the gateway. “His Majesty’s Musketeers, here to see the Vicomte.”

One of the guards headed for the house at a trot. The other kept watching them.

“I know you,” d’Artagnan said suddenly, taking a step forward. “You used to work for Vicomte Chabley.”

The man studied him for a moment before grinning. “I still work for him, M. d’Artagnan. Don’t you know where you are?”

d’Artagnan took a step back, apparently without meaning to. Athos half-turned to keep an eye on the guard. “d’Artagnan? Where are we?”

“We’re on the land of my– brother in law.”

“The snooty one?” Porthos said under his breath. d’Artagnan blinked in reply.

“Do you want to go?” Athos asked. There was movement at the house.

“I can’t, he knows I’m here now and it would be rude. Just...play along,” he finished quietly, taking a step forward again as two figures strode down the drive towards them.

Athos took in the Vicomte at a glance. Too fussily dressed, too fancy for a man of his status. What had Espoir said? The man had ideas above his station? It looked about right. “Thank you for seeing us, monsieur.”

“For His Majesty’s Musketeers, of course. Come in, come– Charles!” He smiled, too wide. “Oh, I suppose it’s d’Artagnan now, isn’t it? That will take some getting used to. Perhaps if we saw you more often.”

“Sadly, my duties keep me busy,” d’Artagnan said evenly. “Vicomte Chabley, may I introduce Comte, Captain of the Musketeers Athos. His personal corps, Porthos du Vallon, and Aramis, our medical officer.”

“And you. I suppose they need someone to look after the horses!” He laughed.

d’Artagnan smiled thinly. “And I believe you know this gentleman.” He gestured to Bonnaire. “He sold you a jewel recently.”

“Yes, I recall. A gift for Emeline.”

“Unfortunately, monsieur, that jewel was stolen,” Athos said. “We are here to retrieve it, by order of the king.”

“Oh? Well, you can certainly have it. When I am reimbursed for it.”

Athos stared him down, unimpressed. “The king will see you reimbursed, but we must retrieve it immediately. There is a time limit at play here.”

“Why don’t we step inside? Charles – ah, d’Artagnan! I really must try to remember – can visit with his sister while we discuss the matter. I know she has missed you very much.”

“Yes, it’s a shame that I was on the front lines for so long,” d’Artagnan agreed flatly. He turned to Athos. “We don’t have to stay. We have that time limit. I can always visit again.”

“We have a little time. Enough to say hello, at least. Let’s go, monsieur.”

The Vicomte smiled stiffly, turning to lead the way up the drive. Aramis leaned in closer to Athos. “Have you noticed the way he twitches every time you call him ‘monsieur’?”

Athos allowed him to see the grin, just for a second. “Stay with d’Artagnan. That man is deliberately needling him.”

“Noticed that, hmm.”

“Hard to miss. Luckily, he doesn’t outrank me, and Porthos won’t care. Stay with d’Artagnan. He may need the grounding.”

Aramis saluted, deliberately sloppy. “I’m on it.”

Someone must have warned Emeline, because she was waiting on the front steps, hands out as they approached. d’Artagnan moved forward, gripping her hands lightly, kissing them before letting her draw him into a hug. “Emmy.”

“It’s so good to see you! I worried so while you were away. How are you?” She pushed him back a little to look him over.

“I’m fine, Emmy–line,” he added quickly. “This is my captain, Athos, and Porthos and Aramis. And Bonnaire, who’s helping us on a mission.”

“The captain and I have some business to discuss,” Chabley explained. “I thought you two might like to talk.”

“Tell me how the children are,” d’Artagnan agreed, taking her arm and escorting her into the house. Aramis trailed them, leaving Porthos to watch Bonnaire.

Emeline chatted easily as they headed into her parlour. A maid was busy laying out a tray for them; Emeline thanked her. “Bring the children in about twenty minutes, would you? We should be ready by then.”

“It doesn’t work if I’m expecting it,” d’Artagnan reminded her warily.

“Oh, I know. But I have other ways. Please sit. And you, monsieur – I’m sorry, are you Porthos or Aramis? I’m afraid I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“We’re confused all the time,” Aramis assured her, sweeping his hat off. “Aramis, at your disposal.”

“Aramis. It’s lovely to meet you. Please, sit. Wine? I’m afraid we don’t keep much else, but there’s probably mead…”

“Wine is perfect, thank you.”

She served it, along with scones and cream. Aramis was mostly silent, listening as she and d’Artagnan chatted – or, at least, she chatted and d’Artagnan occasionally answered a direct question. If she was bothered by his silence, she didn’t show it. Aramis was glad to sit down; he was mostly recovered, but the ride and the night’s camp had been hard on him.

“And how is my lovely sister in law?” Emeline asked finally.

d’Artagnan blinked. “I didn’t know that you were acquainted.”

“We’ve never met. Gustav doesn’t like Paris, you know. But we exchanged some letters while you were on the lines. She seems a good match for you.”

d’Artagnan smiled softly. “She is.”

Emeline looked at Aramis, who nodded immediately. “Constance has the entire garrison jumping at her command. Not a single Musketeer would dare to contradict her.”

“You’d like her,” d’Artagnan said. “I hope you’ll get to meet each other soon.”

“You should come to visit. We hear such dreadful things about Paris at the moment.”

“It’s...difficult,” d’Artagnan allowed. “But that’s why we can’t leave. We’re needed.”

“You always were too stubborn for your own good,” she murmured.

“So Espoir delights in telling me.”

“And we have all noticed,” Aramis agreed, sharing a conspiratorial smile with Emeline.

“Espoir?” she asked, turning back to d’Artagnan.

“He’s working in the palace. We see each other now and then.”

“That’s good to hear. I know he was struggling in Lupiac.”

“Still looking after us all?”

“It’s a hard habit to break.” She brushed his hair out of his eyes. “You look tired, little brother.”

“War does that, Emmy.”

She started to answer, but pulled away and sat upright as the maid shepherded two children in. “Margot, Julian, come and meet our guests. This is your uncle d’Artagnan, my brother, and his friend Aramis.”

“I’ve met Margot before, but you were very, very tiny,” d’Artagnan told her. “I’ve never met Julian.”

Aramis was careful not to react, but he was surprised. Julian was at least eight: even discounting the war, there was plenty of time for d’Artagnan to have met him, and he was clearly still close to Emeline. What had happened?

Margot curtsied neatly. Julian’s bow was a little more wobbly, but perfectly respectable for an eight year old. Aramis stood to return it, smiling at him.

The children must have been used to being shown off; they answered d’Artagnan’s questions, didn’t volunteer anything extra, and were very polite. Aramis added a couple of questions of his own, just to show willing, but he wasn’t surprised when Emeline dismissed them a few minutes later.

d’Artagnan slipped into slightly stilted Gascon – it seemed that praying wasn’t enough to keep him fluent – to ask her something. Emeline was surprised or upset by the question, but she answered anyway. Aramis stood, wandering to examine a tapestry on one wall and give them what privacy he could as they talked. He did his best not to listen, not wanting to overhear anything he recognised.

A maid came in before they’d quite finished, but there was no irritation in Emeline’s voice. “What is it?”

“The Vicomte is asking to see you in his study, mistress.”

“Thank you.” She stood, squeezing d’Artagnan’s hand gently. “This way, gentlemen.”

Porthos watched Emeline lead the other two in. He hoped they’d had a better time of it; d’Artagnan’s brother in law was a piece of work, though he’d been mostly cowed by Athos’ title.

“Monsieur Athos,” Emeline said politely, moving to greet him.

“Vicomtesse Chabley,” he replied. “Our apologies for coming without sending warning. I’m afraid the urgency of our mission meant we could not act as we wished.”

“Of course it did,” she agreed. “You’re quite forgiven, Captain, as long as you remember to bring d’Artagnan with you next time as well.”

“I can certainly do my best, Madame.”

“That will do. And Monsieur Porthos – my sister Constance has mentioned all of you in her letters. I’m so happy to finally meet you.” She nodded politely to Bonnaire, who at least had the manners to sweep a bow.

“Speaking of the mission,” Aramis said. Athos shook his head briefly.

“Vicomte wants assurances we don’t have,” Porthos filled in.

“What’s this?” Emeline asked. “Of course you must trust the Musketeers, my dear.”

“These are matters of business,” Chabley told her.

“Still—”

“They are seeking your new jewel,” he said bluntly.

d’Artagnan winced, but he nodded when she turned to him. “The jewel was stolen from the royal vaults, Emmy, and sold on unknowingly. Your husband is in no way implicated, and the king has promised restitution, but we must have the jewel as soon as possible.”

Emeline blinked. “The saphire? A royal jewel?”

“The Queen herself has worn it; I’ve seen it.”

“I have explained that they can of course have it, once I’ve been recompensed,” Chabley told her.

“My dear, if they need it at once they must have it at once. The restitution will follow, I’m certain of it.” She turned to leave the room.

“Emeline,” Chabley said firmly. Porthos caught d’Artagnan twitching as though to reprimand him, but he held his tongue. “I have made my decision.” 

Emeline hesitated, glancing briefly to d’Artagnan, but she stopped and returned to the group. “How much time…”

“Not much,” d’Artagnan said. “Louis won’t be happy about any delay.”

Emeline blinked. _“Louis?”_

“I– The king.”

“Does the king know you speak so familiarly of him?” Chabley demanded, either outraged or faking it well.

Porthos grinned, vicious. They hadn’t meant to reveal it, but the damage was done now. “Constance didn’t mention that in her letters? d’Artagnan is the King’s champion and one of his premier advisors.”

“No,” Emeline said faintly. “She didn’t mention that, no.”

“How strange. I wonder why not.” He couldn’t see Chabely without turning and making it obvious, but Aramis had a good view. He’d question him later. “The king often requests him as his personal guard and sends him on all his most important missions.”

“Porthos, shut up,” d’Artagnan muttered. “The king honours many of his Musketeers.”

“Uh huh.”

“Perhaps we could leave something here,” Aramis suggested. “As assurance that we will return with your compensation.”

Chabley sniffed, seeming to recover a little. “You don’t have anything valuable enough.”

Athos stood, lowering one hand to his sword hilt. “Enough. We have been more than polite, monsieur, but we are here on direct orders from the king, and you are impeding our duties. Madame, if you would be so kind as to fetch the jewel. You have my word that compensation will be paid.”

“Are you telling the truth, Captain?”

“Yes,” he said, over d’Artagnan’s outraged, “Emmy!”

“Just checking,” she said towards d’Artagnan. “I’ll get it now.”

“You will not!”

Porthos set a hand on Chabley’s shoulder as he started to rise. “Best sit nice and quiet,” he advised him. “You’ve lost.” 

“Are you threatening me, sir?”

“Call it friendly advice.”

Emeline returned with a small velvet pouch. She tipped the gem into her hand, holding it up for Athos to see before returning it to the pouch and offering it to Aramis. “I’m sorry for the difficulties this has caused.”

“I’m sure it looked very beautiful on you,” Aramis said gallantly, tucking it away.

“I’m sure it will look better on her majesty. Please feel free to visit again. I’m always happy to entertain my brother’s friends.”

d’Artagnan shifted a little, and Athos turned. “Let’s go.”

“Just like that?” Porthos asked.

“Let’s go,” he repeated. d’Artagnan moved to follow and Athos glanced around, frowning. “I’m sorry, Madame. Monsieur, your compensation will arrive within the month, and if it doesn’t you may find me at the garrison in Paris. Come along, Aramis.”

Athos waited until they were out of view of the house. “Is anyone following?” he asked tightly. “Not you, d’Artagnan.”

Porthos raised an eyebrow, but slid off his horse and vanished, returning a minute or two later. “No one following.”

Athos reined in so hard Aramis almost ran into him, turning to glare at d’Artagnan, who looked back defiantly. “Explain.”

“Explain what?”

“It seems as though we’re stopping now,” Aramis noted to Porthos. “Funny, I thought we were in a hurry.”

“This is not the time for jokes, Aramis!” Athos snapped.

“Then what is it time for?”

He swung down from his horse. “It’s time for d’Artagnan to explain why I ordered us to leave when I had no intention to do so.” 

Aramis blinked, dismounting. “Once more?”

“You’re saying he forced you?” Porthos clarified. 

“d’Artagnan doesn’t do that.” Aramis led the horses to one side of the road, since they seemed to be stopping for a few minutes. Pulling Bonnaire down from his horse, he ordered him quietly, “Walk along the road until you can’t hear us any more, then stop. If you try to run, I’ll shoot you down, understand me?”

“Understood,” Bonnaire agreed hastily. “Don’t worry, my friend, I understand that sometimes disagreements need to be aired out before– I’ll just go,” he added quickly as Aramis raised an eyebrow at him. He turned and hurried down the road; Aramis watched enough to make sure he wasn’t trying to leave.

“Maybe it was the Vicomte,” Porthos suggested.

Athos turned to glare at him. “After expending all that effort to prevent our leaving with the jewel?”

“He’d lost by then.”

“Or Emeline,” Aramis suggested, watching d’Artagnan. “If she wanted us away from her husband.”

Now d’Artagnan was glaring, too. “It wasn’t Emmy.”

“There’s a lot of tension in that house, and it would make sense, a brother who receives and a sister who projects—”

“It _wasn’t Emmy_. That’s not her…” He caught himself, looking around. Aramis found himself checking, as well, even though they knew they were alone; Bonnaire was waiting far down the road, but that was it. “Way,” he finished more calmly.

“And what is her way?” Athos asked.

d’Artagnan glowered, but he answered easily enough. “If she asks you a question, you answer it honestly. She asked you if you were telling the truth.”

“And I answered,” he agreed slowly.

“Honestly. Or, honestly as far as you know.”

“Any question?”

He shrugged. “If you’re expecting it, it doesn’t work. She has to catch you unawares.”

“But any question?”

“As far as I know.”

Athos studied him intently for a moment. d’Artagnan returned his look.

“Who decided we should leave, d’Artagnan?”

“You gave the order.”

“And who decided that I should give the order?”

d’Artagnan was still holding his gaze. “We needed to leave. Gustav was about to do something very foolish.”

“And how long have you been able to project like that?”

“It’s not projecting,” Aramis interjected, thoughts racing. “At least, not as it was with Milady.”

“No, her control was far less complete,” Athos agreed. “How long, d’Artagnan?”

“You weren’t complaining when we saved Aramis.”

“I believe I would like to be left out of this,” Aramis said, although he was relatively sure they weren’t listening to anything but each other.

“When we saved Aramis?” Athos repeated slowly.

“We avoided the dogs. We avoided the men.” d’Artagnan still looked calm, but his hands were twisting together restlessly. “No one even got close to you.”

“That was…” Athos looked faintly sick.

“You’d have died before you got to him otherwise,” d’Artagnan said flatly.

“This is only happening since then?” Porthos asked, nudging Athos aside slightly to make sure d’Artagnan focused on him. “Since you dragged your Ability back last week?”

“Yes. I didn’t know I was doing it, with Aramis, and I didn’t mean to do it now. We just– We needed to leave.”

He frowned. “Never heard of someone’s Ability changing like that, but I’ve never heard of most of the stuff you do. Seems useful, though. You and me’ll work on it, and apart from that, keep a lid on it, yes?”

“Seems Useful?” Athos repeated, pronouncing both words very deliberately.

“Sure. If he’s gonna be able to stop bandits mid-attack…”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Aramis said quickly, pulling Porthos back a step or two. “Athos. I understand that this feels like a betrayal. If it was not intentional—”

“It wasn’t,” d’Artagnan said quickly. “And I could have lied about it, but I’ve been honest.”

“Oh, well, if you’ve been honest, that solves everything. Let’s continue on to Paris and never mention it again.”

“I don’t like the thought any more than you do,” Aramis said, not bothering to lower his voice. d’Artagnan didn’t outwardly react. “But this is d’Artagnan. You can’t think he would deliberately harm you.”

“What I think about it is not the issue.”

“What you think about it is the only issue,” d’Artagnan said evenly.

“This is hardly the time,” Aramis said. “Or place.”

“I have to agree,” Bonnaire said unexpectedly. Close, too close, Aramis thought as he turned, how much had he heard—?

And then that didn’t matter any more.

Bonnaire spread his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry, my friends. He surprised me.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Grimaud’s pistol was pressed so tightly against Bonnaire’s head it had to be straining his neck. “Let’s talk, Musketeers.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it; Grimaud's motivation. This is one of the things I'm most nervous about in this story, so please let me know what you think!

“Bonnaire,” Athos said calmly. “Come here.”

“A wonderful plan, my friend, but unfortunately impossible right now.”

“Grimaud will not shoot you.” 

d’Artagnan shivered, and Bonnaire’s eyes went wide. “Grimaud? This man is Grimaud?”

“You know him?” Aramis asked. He and Porthos were trying to spread out; Grimaud was watching, amused.

“Grimaud is very well known in certain circles. I don’t suppose you run in them.”

“Known as what?” Athos asked, still outwardly calm. 

“Yes,” Grimaud agreed. “What am I known as, Émile?” 

Bonnaire winced. “As a... procurer. He procures what you want, and if what you want is another man dead, or his business ruined, or weapons thought impossible to come by…”

“What were you procuring for Monsieur le Duc?” Athos asked, curious.

“Weren’t you listening, Olivier? I was procuring what he wanted.”

He lifted the pistol, aiming it loosely towards Athos, and d’Artagnan pulled Bonnaire away, sending him into the treeline with a sharp word. The four Musketeers were in a semicircle now, surrounding Grimaud, but he looked completely unconcerned.

“I do hope you’re quite recovered?” he said towards Aramis. “I regret your treatment, but it was sadly necessary.”

“Necessary in what way?” Athos asked, determined to keep his attention.

“To make you angry, Olivier. So you’d do what needed to be done. But my idiot men let you go too early. How did you manage that, by the way?”

“Brilliantly,” he drawled. “What is it you think needs to be done?”

Grimaud’s arms swung wide; Porthos shouted, watching the pistol, but he wasn’t aiming at anyone at all now. “I need you to kill me.”

“You know that will have no effect.”

“It _will!_ It will, if it’s you, Athos. Only one like us can end us. I have spent so long looking. This is the only way. Raise your pistol and fire. You’ll be rid of me, then.”

Athos shook his head slowly. “Nothing works, Grimaud. You know that.”

“It will work,” he insisted. “It _must_ work. Otherwise, we go on forever. And that is unendurable.”

“How old are you?” Aramis asked curiously.

“I walked this world before your Christ did,” Grimaud told him absently. “I’ve lost track, here and there, over the years. But I know it was earlier than that.”

Aramis inhaled sharply, looking at Athos, who didn’t react. “What were you procuring for Monsieur le Duc?”

“Is that your price?”

“Call it an enticement.”

“A man in my position has only his honour, Olivier. You ask me to betray my patron?”

“A man in the position you long for needs no honour, Grimaud. What will it matter to you then?”

“It will matter to my legacy.”

“Your legacy is that of a warmonger and weapons dealer. A little betrayal will fit right in.”

d’Artagnan shifted. “Athos—”

“Not now.”

“But it—”

He rounded on him, barely suppressed anger flooding back. “Not now, d’Artagnan!”

He saw Grimaud move from the corner of his eye, but not in time. d’Artagnan shifted, muttered something that sounded like, ‘oh’, and fell. Athos heard the crack of the gun at the same time he realised what the red spreading across d’Artagnan’s chest was.

Aramis was already there, on his knees, gloves torn hastily off. Athos rounded on Grimaud, furious beyond anything he’d felt before. “You…”

“Anger,” Grimaud breathed. “That’s it. You want me dead now, don’t you? Do it. I make no resistance.” He spread his arms again, tossing his useless pistol.

“Porthos,” Athos snapped. “Kill him.”

Grimaud spun away, pulling a second pistol from his belt. “No! It has to be you! _It won’t work_ if it isn’t you!”

“Perhaps I’ll kill you later. Porthos!”

“I’ve killed him! The boy you pretended was your brother! I swear, Athos, if you don’t do this I will kill everyone you love! You will never, _never_ be free of me!”

“We’ll see.” Athos nodded to Porthos, turning away as his sword pierced Grimaud’s chest.

He knelt beside Aramis. “Aramis?”

“Shut up. Go away.”

“Is he—”

“Up! Away!”

Bonnaire was creeping back out of the trees, he noticed distantly, but he didn’t have the energy left to deal with that now. “Porthos?” he asked, turning.

Porthos was finishing off tying up Grimaud’s corpse. “Sit down.”

“Why?”

“Because that bullet got you after it went through him, and you’re about to fall. Sit down, fast.”

Athos looked down, finally registering the hole near his stomach and the blood painting his legs. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh._ He was tryin’ to shield you, though God only knows why. I’d’a let you get killed. Might’ve taught you a lesson. Sit.”

It was more of a collapse, but Athos reached the ground, grimacing against a jolt of pain. “Is it in me?”

“Prob’ly. I’ll take care of it.”

“Bonnaire…”

“I’ll take care of him, too. Ain’t got much choice, have I?”

“Porthos…”

“Shut up,” he said, not unkindly. “I’ve got this. Hurry on back to us.”

The sky beyond Porthos was the bluest blue Athos had seen in a long time. He watched it for a while, only vaguely aware when his eyes slid closed and his heart stopped.

Grimaud woke up long before Athos did. Long before Porthos was expecting him to, to be honest. He was ordering Bonnaire away from Aramis and d’Artagnan again when Grimaud sat bolt upright. He tested Porthos’ knots briefly, but they held without difficulty.

“Watch yourself,” Porthos warned him. “I got no problems keeping you dead for now.” Too late to worry about Bonnaire now; he’d have to hope that thieves and smugglers had a similar code to the Court of Miracles.

“It won’t work,” Grimaud said morosely.

“Yeah, so you keep saying. Behave yourself and maybe Athos’ll kill you later.”

Grimaud was studying Aramis. “Why is he trying?”

“Ain’t in him not to.” Porthos had only gone close enough to make sure Aramis wasn’t killing himself; Athos would have to talk him down later. 

“Why does he care?”

Porthos crouched, studying the other man. “There must have been someone, sometime.”

“Maybe,” he said distantly. “They’re gone, though. Fallen into the holes in the years.”

“That’s your problem– Bonnaire, get away!”

“He’s asking for water,” Bonnaire protested, retreating quickly when Porthos came towards him.

“Don’t go too far,” Porthos ordered him, wishing fervently for Espoir or one of the cadets to help. He hunkered beside Aramis, eyeing d’Artagnan. It was true he didn’t look dead… “You with me, ‘Mis?”

“He’s alive,” Aramis murmured.

“Sure?” Porthos didn’t touch him to check, not wanting to upset whatever balance Aramis was working on. “What happened?”

“The bullet touched his heart. I have it repaired, and the rest of the damage, I think, but he lost so much blood, and I can’t…”

“No, I know you can’t. Can you let him go? We need to get a camp sorted out, and there’s only me.” Not that Aramis would be much help, but it would be one less thing to worry about.

Bonnaire raised his hand hesitantly. “Why not go back up the road?”

“What’re you talking about?” Porthos snapped.

“His sister’s house is just back there. The Vicomte hates you, but the Vicomtesse would make sure you were taken care of.”

“Athos’s dead right now,” Porthos reminded him sharply.

“And if I understand correctly, that’s temporary. Wrap him up, make sure that you handle him, tell them he’s unconscious.”

Porthos studied him. “You’re being very helpful.”

“You’re my only hope at a royal pardon, and without that I don’t have much time left. I’d like to see Maria again.”

“Bonnaire,” Aramis said carefully. “Do you…”

He laughed shortly. “Not I, my friend, no. But I’ve known plenty. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

“Until it profits you,” Porthos grunted.

“A man cannot be blamed for seeking the means to live, Porthos,” Bonnaire pointed out. “But there is profit, and there is profit.”

Aramis caught Porthos’ eye. “Send him back for help.”

“You sure?” Porthos asked, turning to look for his packs.

“It’s the best of a bad lot. Emeline will make sure we have what we need.”

“And him?” Porthos tipped his head towards Grimaud.

Aramis glanced over. “He’ll behave, if he wants Athos to grant his wish.”

“Just to be safe…” Porthos found a spare scarf and gagged Grimaud with it, pulling the knot tighter than necessary. “There. Right, Bonnaire. We were attacked a ways down the road, and we’ve made this far back but can’t go any further. Got it? And make sure you see the Vicomtesse, Chabley’ll turn you away just because.”

Bonnaire nodded. “You can count on me.”

“I hope so, because you know what’ll happen otherwise.”

“I do.” He found his horse and led it back along the road to Chabley’s estate.

Porthos checked on Athos – still dead, as expected – and came to kneel beside Aramis. “This smart?”

“It’s the only option we have, until Athos comes back. You can’t manage all of us. Though I’ve no doubt you’d try.”

“I meant trusting Bonnaire.”

“No, you didn’t. But the same answer holds true. May I please have a drink?”

“If you let go of d’Artagnan, you can.”

“Bully.”

“That’s me.” He went for the water skin, gratified to see Aramis easing d’Artagnan to the ground when he came back. “Emmy’ll have broth and beer, get him going again no problem.”

“Assuming he hasn’t Fallen,” Aramis said darkly, taking the skin. “I can’t tell yet.”

“We’ll deal with that if we have to. I’m going to round up the horses, make sure we didn’t lose any supplies. You sing if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Porthos.”

He squeezed Aramis’ shoulder briefly and went to whistle the horses back in.

Athos woke, sitting up and looking around. He didn’t recognise the well-appointed room, and he was on his feet when the door opened and Bonnaire, of all people, came in.

“You’re up,” he said, seeming unsurprised. “Porthos said you’d want this.” He offered a bottle of what Athos recognised as very good wine. “Better make the most of it, I don’t think we’ll get a second bottle.”

“Where are we?” Athos demanded, making no move towards the wine.

“We’re in the Vicomte’s chateau. Aramis is sleeping there—” he pointed to one wall, then the other as he continued “—and Porthos and d’Artagnan are there. Grimaud is confined in the cellar, and the Vicomte’s men are under strict orders not to go near him.”

Athos stepped around him into the corridor, checking on Aramis first (fast asleep, but there was an empty plate by his bed) and then Porthos and d’Artagnan. d’Artagnan was asleep, too, but Porthos was only dozing and he looked up when Athos opened the door. “All right?”

“Just checking.”

“Yeah, I’d want to check if Bonnaire said the sky was blue, but he’s being straight this time.”

“d’Artagnan?”

Porthos glanced back at the bed. “He’ll live. Lot of blood loss. Get back to bed before Emmy comes by, she thinks you have a head injury.”

“How long have we been here?”

“It’s just after lunch, the day after the last thing you remember. We’ll need to be going tomorrow, I think.”

“Yes, I think so,” Athos murmured, retreating to his own room. Bonnaire was still there, offering the bottle; when Athos still didn’t reach for it he shrugged and took a swig himself.

“Why are you helping?” Athos asked bluntly, crossing to the window. It didn’t overlook the front of the house and he couldn’t orient himself.

“A man sees another man in trouble, he cannot simply pass by,” Bonnaire said piously. “Aramis would tell you.”

Athos glanced over his shoulder, raising one eyebrow. Bonnaire sighed, sitting down. “The king is holding Maria.”

“Your wife?”

“If I do not return, or I return and you give a bad report of me…” He shrugged, worrying at his thumbnail.

Athos studied him for a minute. “You have been helpful,” he said finally.

Bonnaire seemed to relax a little. “Maria has never committed a crime. She may have... aided me here and there, but she has never done anything wrong herself.”

“Where is she?”

“The king suggested the Chatelet. The queen insisted that she be given a chamber in the palace, but it was left in Feron’s hands, so who knows.”

“We will send a message ahead and I will ask Treville to have her waiting for you.”

Bonnaire looked up sharply. “You would do that?” Athos shrugged vaguely, and Bonnaire leaned forward. “Then I will do something for you, Athos. The Vicomte cannot be trusted.”

Athos frowned. “He seemed a little too full of himself, but untrustworthy?”

“When we brought in Grimaud – I have made my life on knowing how to read another man’s face, and the Vicomte is an open book. He knows Grimaud and there is something very wrong here.”

“This isn’t a ruse to send me down there?”

“On Maria’s life.”

He stood, casting around for his boots and sword belt. “Show me.”

Like most estates, there were no cells in the building proper. There was probably an outbuilding somewhere, but Athos applauded Porthos’ decision to keep Grimaud nearby. Bonnaire led him on a roundabout way that managed to avoid everyone in the building.

“They dismissed some servants for the day,” he explained when Athos asked. “Or gave them duties out of the house, I’m not sure which. In a few hours when they come back for dinner service this way will be impassable – there, down those stairs. Go quietly, his enclosure is very close by.”

“Wait here,” Athos murmured, pulling his dagger – it would be just as much use in the enclosed space – and slipping down as softly as he could. The stairs didn’t creak, at least, and since the only light source was at the bottom he would cast no shadow.

“It’s all over,” Grimaud was saying as Athos neared the bottom. He paused, listening intently.

“It can’t be over,” Chabley insisted. “What about my money? I housed your wretched men here, what about that? You promised me a duchy!”

“Men promise many things. Sometimes they appear. Sometimes they don’t.”

“You told me my lands were important. A strategic point to hold the surrounding area.”

“And you believed me.” There was scorn in Grimaud’s voice. “Nothing we did here was about you. It was always about your wife.”

“My wife?”

“Sister of the King’s Champion? Oh, the things we could have done. The blow we could have struck at the heart of the King’s Regiment!”

Athos closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall.

“Then– Everything I gave you…” 

“Useless,” Grimaud finished for him. “If we’d been able to find the other sister we never would have come near you in the first place. But our proof of your treason will be useful when the time comes.”

“You just said it was all over!”

“Your part is. Unless you free me. Free me and it all goes away. You can live out your life on this little estate, unworried.”

“I…”

Athos rounded the corner into the pool of light. Grimaud raised an eyebrow at him; Chabley blinked rapidly, caught.

“Porthos will handle interrogating the prisoner, monsieur,” Athos said. “You need not bother yourself. He will be gone from here tomorrow and your family will be quite safe again.”

The relief was clear on Chabley’s face. “I simply wanted to be sure he was secured. My wife and children, you understand.”

“Only natural,” he agreed. “Please leave him to me now.”

Chabley almost ran for the stairs. Grimaud watched him go, amused. “You do keep your cards close, don’t you, Olivier?”

“I find it helpful. Where is the proof?”

“The proof?”

“Of his treason.”

He shrugged carelessly. “I don’t have it. It’s just a useful way to control him.”

“But it exists?”

“It exists.” He leaned against the bars, resting his bound hands on a crossbeam. “What will you trade for it?”

“You were hunting d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, turning aside to check the lock.

“Him, Treville. The king wouldn’t care about the cadets, and the rest of you are annoyingly insular. There was only one other possibility, but this one was deemed easiest.”

“What was the other one?”

Grimaud smirked. “What will you trade for it, Olivier? And be careful; there’s only one acceptable answer, and only one trade. You must decide what’s most important to you.”

The lock was secure and the bars were sturdy. Athos turned back to him. “There’s a room like this on my estate. No one ever visits. It would be easy enough to block the doorway, to be extra sure. Starvation is an ugly death. And uglier when it repeats for eternity.”

Grimaud smirked again. “You’re so close, Olivier. You need a little more menace in your words. I didn’t believe you at all this time.”

“Consider your options. I will return.”

Bonnaire was lurking down the corridor a way. “Had to avoid the Vicomte. What happened?”

“Stay here. If anyone attempts to gain access to him, come immediately and tell me.”

“Where will you be?”

“With the others. We need to talk.”


	16. Chapter 16

The ride back to Paris took much longer than the ride out. Bonnaire was creepily helpful, checking on them so many times that Aramis eventually banished him to watch the trail behind them.

When they reached Paris d’Artagnan took charge of Bonnaire and headed on to the palace. They weren’t sure if Aramis’ exile still stood, but if it did they didn’t want to risk upsetting Louis, since d’Artagnan was about to ask him a very big favour. Bonnaire stayed close as they passed through the palace, waiting to be seen.

Maria was waiting by the dias. She looked small and scared, but she was clean and didn’t appear hurt. d’Artagnan kept a hand on Bonnaire’s arm, holding him in check.

“Your Majesty,” he said to Louis, bowing. 

“Where are my jewels?” Louis demanded.

d’Artagnan gave the bag to Espoir, who carried it to Louis to look through. “According to the list we were given by Monsieur le Duc, everything is there, your majesty.”

Louis glanced briefly through the contents before waving Espoir off. “Yes, that looks fine. And him?”

“Bonnaire was extremely helpful to us, your majesty. We could not have recovered your jewels without him. And remember, he didn’t know they were stolen.”

“He knew they were expensive,” Louis grumbled. “Very well, let the wretched man go. If we ever see you again, Bonny, you will not like what we will do!”

Bonnaire was already in Maria’s arms, but he turned to bow. “Thank you, your majesty. Please allow me to apologise again. I should have known better, of course. How could such brilliant jewels belong to anyone but your august self! Although, of course, they pale when placed beside you—”

“Bonnaire,” d’Artagnan interrupted. “The way out is there.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you! Thank you both!” He hurried Maria out, bowing again on the way.

“Where are the others?” Louis asked disinterestedly.

“Aramis is at the garrison. Athos and Porthos are taking care of something that came up on our mission. May I approach, your majesty?”

Louis eyed him. “Approach?”

“I have a matter that is only for your ears, sire.”

“Get it over with, then.” Louis waved him up and gestured Espoir away. Anne sat, unmoving, and d’Artagnan nodded quickly to her as he came onto the dias and crouched beside Louis’ throne.

“While on our mission, your majesty, we came upon something very troubling. I cannot give you all the details, as we don’t have them all yet, but it seems that some few of your landed gentry may be working against you.”

Louis sat very still, gripping the arms of his throne tightly. “Have you killed the guilty parties?”

“Not yet. We need them, so we can find out how many are involved. But there is a personal matter.”

“Personal?”

“To me. To my shame, one of those involved is my brother in law: my oldest sister’s husband. I have come to beg, your majesty, for my sister and her children. I know that she is not involved in any way, and when you decide a punishment for these traitors I ask you to spare her.”

“Not involved?” he repeated. “Your family seems to be entangled in everything these days, d’Artagnan. Don’t think I don’t know who my new footman is.”

“I assumed you did know,” d’Artagnan lied easily. “A coincidence, nothing more.”

“How old are her children?” Anne asked.

d’Artagnan tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Twelve and seven, your majesty. Margot and Julian.”

She smiled thinly. “Pretty names.”

“Innocent children.” He looked back at Louis, careful not to react when he realised Louis’ shields were all down and he was staring intently at him.

d’Artagnan concentrated hard. He didn’t want to accidentally influence Louis one way or the other; that could only make things worse.

Louis’ shields came back up and he looked over at Anne. “Two of your ladies left recently, yes?”

“Yes,” Anne said warily.

“And they’ve not yet been replaced?”

“Not yet. I have various petitions.”

“Perhaps this genteel sister might be appropriate.”

d’Artagnan shook his head before she could answer. “That’s very kind, sire, but she’s not titled.”

“Arrange an interview,” Louis told Anne, as if d’Artagnan hadn’t spoken. “Surely she’ll be suitable for something.”

“I will do it immediately, sire,” Anne promised. “d’Artagnan, come and give me her details.”

“She cannot be a lady,” d’Artagnan repeated.

“Madame d’Artagnan is not titled either, correct? And she served loyally for some years.” Louis went to stand and d’Artagnan automatically backed out of the way.

“She is still my most loyal friend,” Anne agreed, offering a hand to d’Artagnan.

He held it lightly, still a little baffled. “Your majesty…”

“It’s good to have representatives of the people about us,” Anne told him firmly. “Now, come and give me the details.”

“And send Aramis to attend on us,” Louis said, taking Espoir’s arm to leave. “As soon as you can.”

“Yes, your majesty,” d’Artagnan agreed, escorting Anne away.

They kept Grimaud dead as much as they could, to make things easier. He recovered far more quickly than Athos did, but if Athos noticed he gave no sign, just had Porthos kill him again.

He didn’t say where they were going, either, but Porthos wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t surprised when they skirted around Pinon and rode up to Athos’ manor from behind.

“No one’s living here, are they?” he asked, dismounting and dragging Grimaud down.

“The house was not included in the settlement I reached with Bertram. If anyone is here, they shouldn’t be.”

To be safe, they tied Grimaud in the barn and went through the house. It was empty, starting to fall apart properly. Athos didn’t seem affected by the sight, but Porthos did as much as he could by himself anyway.

Satisfied that no one was there, they retrieved Grimaud – alive again, but he didn’t resist – and Athos led them down into a partially buried cellar. Porthos could see empty weapon racks and pantries, but Athos ignored them and continued on to a barred door.

“Is it starvation, then?” Grimaud asked, looking around curiously.

“No. It will be kinder than that.” Athos very visibly did not look at the crypts as they passed them, heading to the back of the room, to the oldest ones. Porthos rocked a couple as he passed; they were still sturdy, barely budging.

Athos set his torch into a ring in the wall. “Tell us who your third target was.”

“And if I tell? Then what?”

“Then, when this is all over and Gaston is dealt with, I will return and kill you. We will see if it will help.”

“And if not?”

“You will remain buried here forever. I retain ownership of the land. We will pull the house down on you, and I will make sure it is never removed.”

“I will suffocate and simply never wake,” Grimaud pointed out.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you will live without air. You heal much more quickly than I. Perhaps breathing without breath is another thing that comes with time. These are your choices, Grimaud, and you have until we move this tomb lid to decide.”

Porthos took the hint, tethering Grimaud to another torch holder, well out of their reach. Together he and Athos bent to the tomb lid. It was solid, but well balanced, and they pushed it wide enough with only a couple of minutes’ effort. A dusty shroud lay inside, but there was no other sign of whatever ancestor had lain there.

Athos carefully took the shroud out, folding it to keep as much dust as possible inside, and set it aside before turning to Grimaud. “Well?”

“Pauline,” Grimaud answered. “An...old friend of Aramis’.”

“Where is she?”

“In Paris, at the house of her lover, one St. Pierre.”

“Good.” Athos nodded to Porthos. “Kill him and we will leave him here, for now.”

“You needn’t kill me. Aren’t you curious to know if I can suffocate?”

“I told you I would not be cruel.”

“Call it a last wish. Since you’ve brought it up, I’m curious myself.” Porthos had freed his tether, and he walked confidently to the sarcophagus, sitting on the edge and swinging his legs in.

Porthos barely saw what happened. Grimaud lunged, Athos reacted, and they were both half in the tomb, struggling fiercely in the little space they had. Porthos couldn’t get at Grimaud – he was shielded on one side by the tomb lid and on the other by Athos himself – and he grabbed his dagger, struggling to find a space to insert it where he could be sure of hitting Grimaud.

Athos ended it himself, staggering backwards, panting heavily. Porthos spared a glance for Grimaud – back of his head smashed in, looked like – and went to kneel beside Athos. “Anything serious?”

Athos shook his head, coughing harshly. “Get the lid back on.”

“Don’t want to wait a few minutes? See what happens?”

“No. I want the lid back on.” He stood unsteadily, staggering towards the main cellar.

Porthos did as he was told, heaving the massive slab back across the tomb, leaving Grimaud crumpled uncomfortably in the bottom of it. By the time he had it back in place Athos had returned, dragging a large timber; they hauled that on top and went for more, bringing back fallen masonry to load the lid down. Once Athos was satisfied, Porthos fiddled with the lock on the bars, jamming it up beyond any kind of quick fix, and above they covered over the cellar door with another pile of masonry and rubbish. Porthos laid branches and clumps of grass over it. They’d root quickly enough, and soon this pile would look no different than any other pile around.

Athos was still carrying the shroud. Once they were done, he walked away from the house a way and shook it out, freeing the dust to dance in the air. “Enjoy the freedom he will never have, whatever ancestor you are,” he murmured, folding the shroud carefully and burying it under a nearby rock.

Porthos glanced at the sun. “He’s alive again by now. Or not.”

“Those are the options,” Athos agreed.

“You should’ve waited. At least you’d know, then.”

“What good would that do? In all of Grimaud’s life, he only ever found me. Or, at least, there was no other like us who would kill him. My life does not scare me, Porthos. I don’t need an escape route.”

“Not right now, but someday?”

“If, someday, I want one, I will know where to begin my search.”

Porthos shook his head. “I don’t understand it, but it’s your life and your choice. C’mon. I seem to remember the inn here does a decent stew, and we need to clean up.”


	17. Chapter 17

Aramis made his way to the palace, nodding at the guards he recognised. He wasn’t stopped at the entry to Louis’ chambers, so the news he was wanted had obviously spread.

Espoir let him into the king’s bedchamber. He was the only servant there, which meant the king was breaking about twenty laws for this meeting. Treville was standing by the window, arms folded and eyes dark.

Aramis pulled his hat off and bowed to Louis. “Your majesty. d’Artagnan said you requested me.”

“Yes.” Louis waved him closer to where he was sitting on the bed. “I still hate you, you understand.”

“I expected no less, sire.”

Treville was watching intently. Aramis ignored him.

“But I find that my strength – my lack of strength – is more important. Can you help me, Aramis?”

Aramis knelt in front of the bed, studying Louis without touching him. “I cannot Heal you. Even if you’d asked the first day you fell sick, I couldn’t have done it. That’s not where my Ability lies.” Treville moved to order Espoir away, but Aramis shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Minister. My king has requested my help.”

“And Espoir knew already,” Louis said absently. Aramis lowered his head to hide a smile, and Louis scoffed. “Why does everyone think I’m so slow? It’s not as though he’s been hiding his own Ability.”

“That’s why you put me here!” Espoir said to Aramis’ glare. “To help him.”

“It is,” he relented, looking back at Louis. “Another effort to help you. I can’t Heal you, majesty, but I can ease your pain a little.”

“When I’m dead,” Louis said in Spanish, “will you go straight to her bed, or wait until I’m buried?”

Aramis held himself very still. “I hadn’t considered it,” he replied. Louis scoffed again, and he insisted “I had not. I have never, never placed myself where I was not wanted, Louis. I never will. It is...antithetical to me.”

“And if I ordered you to refuse her advances in future?”

This time he did look away. “I’m yours to command, my king.”

“As you will be hers, I suppose, when I’m gone,” he said, sounding defeated. “One favour, then.”

“Your majesty?”

“Wait out the mourning period. Grant me that much dignity.”

Aramis reached for his wrist, wrapping his fingers around it, thoughts racing. He genuinely hadn’t considered seeing Anne again after Louis’ death. But she’d be Regent, wouldn’t she? Overseeing Louis Dieudonne?

“Will she be Regent, then, sire?”

“Yet to be decided. I have brothers, after all. Granted, they’ve both betrayed me, but at least that was political. Not personal.”

Aramis flinched, pressing a little harder against the muck in Louis’ lungs. “A bucket, Espoir, if you would,” he said in French, returning to Spanish to continue “What about your son, sire?”

“What about him?” Louis snapped, starting to cough as Aramis loosened things up. Espoir was there and ready, Aramis noted. Anyone would think he’d been trained for this.

When the worst of it was over, Aramis made sure that Louis had something to drink. “Do you plan to order me off his guard detail?”

Louis looked thoughtful. “I hadn’t considered it.” A lie, maybe, but Aramis couldn’t tell.

“Your favour is more than fair, and I will give my word to obey it.” A year without her...but it was little enough to soothe a dying man.

“Without telling her,” Louis added. “Let her think you have no interest, or there is someone else. Whatever you please. But she will not know of this arrangement.”

“Slightly less fair,” he muttered. “Agreed.”

“If you will give me your word that my son will never know who you are, not from you, from his mother, or anyone you have any control over, I will not forbid you from his guard.”

Aramis nodded. “Again, fair.” The boy would probably find out anyway, but Aramis could do his best to suppress that.

“Thank you,” he said in French. “I have sent for Professor Lemay, so I will try not to call on you again.”

“I’m yours to command, my king.” Professor Lemay would probably be better for him in the long run, though.

Treville moved to help Aramis when he stood, but he waved him off. “I’m fine.”

“Espoir, make sure that he eats and takes some wine before he leaves,” Treville ordered. “No excuses. We’ll talk later, Aramis.”

“I look forward to it, Minister. Your majesty.” He bowed and walked away, leaving Louis still sitting on his bed, small and alone.

Athos and Porthos arrived back to the garrison just before Aramis did. d’Artagnan arranged a meal for them, told Clarmont that anyone who interrupted them would be on stable duty for the next six months, and locked them into Athos’ office with Constance.

“Where’s Grimmaud?” he asked first, looking to Porthos.

“Interred in Pinon,” Porthos said flatly. “He’s not getting out on his own.”

“Are we worried about him getting out?” Constance asked, serving the wine.

Athos refused his. “Grimmaud appears to have an Ability that keeps him alive even when it shouldn’t,” he said. “Or rather, returns him to life when it shouldn’t.”

“He can’t die?”

“Only very temporarily. Which reminds me…” He stood, unlocking the door and shouting for the nearest cadet.

“What is it?” d’Artagnan asked, watching him.

“A lead. Brujon—”

“Camus,” d’Artagnan muttered.

Athos ignored him. “Find the house of a man called St Pierre. Not a noble, but well-to-do. Don’t approach it; just bring me the address.”

“Yes, Captain.” Camus saluted and ran off.

“Who’s St Pierre?” Aramis asked.

“Tell you when we know where he is,” Porthos said. “He’s not a suspect.”

“What’s to suspect him of?” Constance asked.

“Has the king given any indication of who will be the regent?” Athos asked her, ignoring the question.

“Not to the Queen. She’s terrified it’ll be Gaston; he’d confine her in a nunnery or something as soon as Louis was buried. Why?”

d’Artagnan reached for her arm, grounding himself. “Gaston is planning a coup. Feron may be part of it, we don’t know. Grimmaud was Gaston’s man, working to gain support from some of the landed nobles.”

“They’ll overthrow the queen?”

“The king, I think,” Athos corrected her. “Very few at the Court know of his illness yet, correct?”

“Right,” she agreed. “Treville had some of the maids gossiping about the terrible cold the king’s caught, how he’s always shouting for towels and water.”

“That buys us a little time.”

“Not much,” Aramis said regretfully. “Professor Lemay is on his way back to Court to attend on Louis personally.”

“We may be able to disguise that as a check up for the Dauphin,” Constance said thoughtfully. “His quarters are within the king’s, so it wouldn’t be at all strange to see Lemay go in.”

d’Artagnan smiled. “Good thought. Can you see to that? And try and arrange for Espoir to escort Lemay, that will help too. I don’t know who else we can trust in the household.”

“Espoir may,” Aramis pointed out. “He strikes me as the kind of man who learns that kind of thing quickly.”

“Let’s hope. We’ll have an ally in the queen’s household soon, hopefully.”

“Oh?” Constance asked, coming to sit on the arm of his chair.

“She’s sent for Emmy to interview her for a position in her ladies in waiting. Someone left recently?”

“Madame Boucher. I don’t miss her. The woman was always skimming little things, and she was very good at saying things that sound like compliments but really aren’t. I’ll get to meet the famous Emeline?”

“I hope so.” He really did, he realised with a jolt of surprise. It would mean he could see her, and more importantly, it would mean she was far away from Gustav when everything came tumbling down. “At least when she’s here for the interview.”

“But then she might get caught up in everything.”

He nodded grimly. “We’ll need to be careful.”

“Do we have a plan?” Constance asked Athos. “For dealing with Gaston.”

“Not yet. We need a better idea of how many nobles may have fallen to Gaston.”

“And what’s the plan for that?”

“Good question,” Porthos muttered. “When you find out, let me know, will you?”

“We’ll find a way,” Athos said.

“Most of the high nobles are here, or coming,” she said. “For the Dauphin’s birthday. Maybe you could do something with that.”

Aramis laughed. “Constance, you must attend every meeting we have from now on.”

“I don’t know how you ever managed without me until now,” she said primly, standing up. “You boys make your little plans. I’ll be getting on with things.”

“Send Brujon—”

”Camus,” d’Artagnan repeated.

Athos waved him off. “With the information as soon as he returns.”

“I will.” She let herself out, closing the door firmly behind herself.

Aramis was watching Athos when he turned back. “Why do we need to know where this man lives?”

“It’s another piece of the puzzle. I’ll tell you when we have the information.”

Aramis studied him for a moment before nodding. “Very well. I’ll wait.”

“Good. Now, let’s eat. We may need it later.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, guys. I suck. I was sick, and then my retail job restarted just before Christmas...so here's an extra long section to make up, and I will try to do better.

Camus was quick. He came back shortly after they finished eating to hand over the address and report that they seemed to be preparing for a celebration.

“What kind of celebration?” Athos asked.

“I didn’t get close enough to see, sir. You told me not to.”

“Yes, I did. Well done.” Athos dismissed him, turning back to the others. d’Artagnan was studying the table intently, clearly already aware to some measure of what was going to happen. Porthos had propped one shoulder against a wall behind Aramis, keeping an eye on him.

“The mysterious St Pierre?” Aramis asked, reaching out for the piece of parchment.

“St Pierre himself is more or less incidental.” Athos let him take it. “He is merely housing the person Grimaud identified as the third option to sow dissent in our ranks.”

Aramis froze so briefly it was barely noticeable, scanning the address. “Someone related to me?”

“The name he gave us was Pauline. St Pierre is her lover.” Athos watched him carefully.

Aramis stared somewhere past the address for a moment. “Good for her,” he said finally, voice distant. “I don’t know how Grimaud planned to use her for anything. I haven’t seen her in thirty years or more. I’d no idea she was even in Paris.”

“Who is she?” Porthos asked.

“We were children together, for a few years. Before I went to live with my father.”

It was more than Aramis had ever told them about his childhood before. Athos nodded, not pushing. 

Porthos dragged a chair out from the table to sit. “Look, I know what kid friends are like. What if she came to you, in trouble, needing help? She’d get it?”

“Yes,” Aramis admitted softly. “If it was in my power.”

“Right. It’s likely Grimaud went to this St Pierre, right? Same as Gustav? Athos and me’ll go find out.”

Aramis shook his head. “I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to,” Athos told him.

“If Grimaud has reached Pauline, it falls on me to keep her safe.”

“Us,” d’Artagnan said quietly. “It falls on us, Aramis.”

Athos nodded shortly. “Take d’Artagnan, then, and see what you can find.”

“Excellent.” Aramis pushed to his feet, fussing with his hat.

Athos did him the favour of not asking if he was sure. “If you find St Pierre hostile, retreat and we will aid you. Try not to arouse his suspicions.”

“So I shouldn’t tell him we’re searching for proof of his involvement in a violent coup?”

Porthos raised one finger. “We don’t have proof it’ll be violent.”

“An illegal coup,” Aramis corrected himself.

“Better.”

“That’s what you’re worried about right now?” d’Artagnan asked, pushing to his feet. “The legality of Gaston’s actions?”

“We are nothing if not men of accuracy,” Porthos said solemnly.

“You’re about to be men in an empty room.”

“How can it be empty if we’re in it?”

“Because all the best people will be gone.” Aramis hustled d’Artagnan out before he could answer, leaving them alone.

“Big party,” d’Artagnan observed as they approached the house. Aramis grunted in response. It was the first thing d’Artagnan had said, but he couldn’t bring himself to talk to the younger man, too confused about Pauline, wallowing in the feelings that even the mention of her brought to mind.

The gate guard assumed they wanted St Pierre, and after a couple of minutes frustration Aramis accepted it and let him send for the man rather than continue trying to convince him they wanted Pauline. He wasn’t even sure what her name was now. It seemed likely she’d changed it. He’d changed his, after all.

St Pierre was a neat, well dressed man. He welcomed them in politely, ushered them into a study and offered drinks and refreshments. Aramis refused and d’Artagnan followed his lead, drifting to a window to look out into the yard.

“How can I help his majesty’s Musketeers?” St Pierre asked at last, when he’d exhausted his offers of hospitality.

“It’s not actually your help we’re looking for,” Aramis said. “Forgive my crudity, sir; we’re looking for a woman who was described to us as your lover. The name we have is Pauline but that may not be correct.”

“Lover?” St Pierre repeated with a laugh. “I have a fiancée, sir, if that’s…”

Aramis absolutely did not allow his feelings to show on his face. “Is her name Pauline?”

The laugh trailed off. “It is.”

“May we meet with her?”

“She’s not in any trouble,” d’Artagnan said from the window. “Or any danger. You’re welcome to stay while we speak with her.”

St Pierre studied them for a moment before standing abruptly and heading for the door. Aramis stood, moving to join d’Artagnan. “Well?” he murmured.

“No more than the standard worry at seeing us. I don’t think he’s guilty of anything serious. Does Pauline have an Ability?”

“If she does it didn’t manifest while I knew her.”

“How old…?”

“Six. Seven, maybe. We didn’t really keep track. I lived with my father and stepmother for a few years and then they sent me to a religious school in preparation for the seminary.”

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan murmured.

“Of course,” Aramis said briskly. “I’m happy for her. This is a good home and St Pierre seems – quite lovely.”

d’Artagnan didn’t ask any more, turning toward the door a moment before St Pierre opened it to usher a woman in. “These are the men asking for you,” he told her.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Aramis said, searching her face. The hair was right, but…

“How can I help?” she asked, looking between him and d’Artagnan uncertainly.

“We are only—”

“I’m sorry, madame,” d’Artagnan interrupted him. “Monsieur, perhaps there was some confusion. The woman we are seeking is your fiancée. This is not she.”

St Pierre glared at him. “My mistake,” he gritted out. “Let me go find her. Come along.” He escorted the woman out again.

Aramis blinked, turning to look at d’Artagnan. “How could you tell?”

“Too nervous too suddenly. And she was not accustomed to wearing an engagement ring. I’ve no idea who she is. A lady’s maid, perhaps.”

“Why would he try to keep Pauline from us?”

“Afraid of what she’ll tell us, maybe? I don’t know. I’d have to know him better.”

Aramis nodded understanding. “It’s something to think about, anyway.”

St Pierre kept them waiting much longer this time, but eventually he returned, escorting another blonde woman. Aramis blinked rapidly, trying to hide the sense of being punched in the heart. This was Pauline, no question. Her face hadn’t changed in the slightest.

“The Musketeers, my dear.” St Pierre glowered at them.

“My lady,” d’Artagnan said politely, taking a step to the side to draw attention away from Aramis. “We’re sorry to disturb you. I can see you’re very busy preparing for... a party?”

Pauline simpered, gripping St Pierre’s arm. “Wedding.”

“My congratulations. We won’t delay you. We’re investigating a recent robbery, and the man responsible claims to have sold a jewel to the lady of this house. Have you acquired anything new recently?”

“Nothing that wasn’t from a jeweler,” she said, a little confused.

“He goes by the name of Grimaud. Tall, dark hair, beard, quite intense…”

“I’m quite sure I don’t know anyone like that!” she said with a laugh.

d’Artagnan smiled along with her. “Monsieur?”

“What?”

“The name doesn’t mean anything to you?”

He sniffed. “Why should it? Do you think I associate with criminals?”

“Of course not. My apologies.” He bowed quickly.

“Is that all?” Pauline asked. “I have a lot to oversee, so…”

“Please don’t let us delay you. Thank you for your help.”

“Congratulations on your wedding,” Aramis added, face tilted down. Pauline glanced curiously at him, but there was no trace of recognition.

“Wait a moment for me if you would, monsieurs,” St Pierre said, escorting her out of the room again.

“All right?” d’Artagnan murmured.

“I told you I am.”

“And I believe it just as much now.”

Aramis glowered at him, turning away as St Pierre reentered. “Our apologies for wasting your time, monsieur.”

“The man responsible is called Grimaud?”

Aramis glanced at d’Artagnan. “Yes,” he said slowly. “A criminal. Why?”

St Pierre sighed. “He came here. Not as a jewel salesman. He claimed to be a mercenary, offering his services to my household against the influx of refugees in the city.”

“You didn’t accept?”

“I did. Briefly.”

d’Artagnan shifted. “What changed your mind about him?”

“I didn’t like his attitude about certain things,” St Pierre said shortly.

“...About the king?”

“I’m loyal to the Crown, gentlemen.”

“Of course you are,” Aramis said briskly, “and it does you credit that you recognised his character so quickly.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“You’ve been more helpful than you know. Thank you. And my congratulations, again. I hope you two will be very happy together.”

“Thank you.”

A guard showed them out. d’Artagnan started to speak; Aramis glanced at him, and he wisely changed his mind, looking away.

“Well done,” Aramis muttered. “Let’s go.”

If Athos was surprised when Aramis walked directly to his desk to take a swig from his wine bottle, he didn’t show it. “How did it go?” he asked d’Artagnan, kicking a chair towards Aramis.

“Grimaud was briefly employed as a mercenary, protecting the house from refugees. St Pierre dismissed him. He claims to have disliked Grimaud’s attitudes about certain things. Pauline didn’t recognise Grimaud’s name, or Aramis, and didn’t seem upset or worried. Preoccupied with her wedding.”

“I see,” Athos murmured, nodding absently when d’Artagnan let himself out and closed the door firmly.

Aramis had taken the seat, at least, but he was still clutching the bottle determinedly. “There’s more,” Athos told him, waving to a cupboard on one side of the room.

“Anything better than this swill?”

“There is some very fine brandy, if you feel the need.”

“Always have the good stuff, don’t you?” Aramis crossed to the cupboard, pulling out the brandy and a cup. “Drink with me?”

“Is that what I’d be doing?”

“She didn’t recognise me.”

“Should she have?” Athos took the cup Aramis thrust at him, but he made no attempt to drink from it. “How long is it since you knew her?”

“I was seven. I think.”

“A man changes a good deal after seven.”

“She is exactly the same,” he said softly. “And she did what she always said she would. She got out.”

“Out of where?”

Aramis eyed him. “I’m not that drunk yet.”

“You began the conversation.”

He flung himself back onto the chair, almost going off the other side. “Well, maybe I will tell you. You understand, after all.”

“Understand what?”

“That a man does not choose his place of birth.”

Athos carefully set his glass aside, still untouched. “Where were you born, Aramis?”

“In a brothel.” He pronounced it with relish, watching for Athos’ reaction; Athos didn’t give him one, and after a moment he pouted and went on. “My mother worked there. Pauline’s, too. She was already being bought when I left with my father. He wouldn’t allow me to say goodbye.”

“Did he take your mother, too?”

Aramis snorted. “No. She was only one of many to him. But my step mother hadn’t given him an heir, so I was valuable. Until he realised I had an Ability; then it was off to the seminary.”

Athos nodded slowly. It was a sad story, certainly, but nothing that didn’t happen all over the country all the time. “And now she is to be married?”

“He seems nice. Big house. Didn’t fall for Grimaud’s lines.”

“It’s the fact that Grimaud knew to go there at all that worries me. Who knows your history?”

Aramis sat up, focusing a little. “Treville. Perhaps my confessor from the seminary, if he’s still alive.”

“Treville has never knowingly spoken to Grimaud.”

“Where’s his wife? Grimaud said—”

“Cloistered on his estate for the past several months. She’s quite safe.”

“Does it matter? We have Grimaud, and we know his plan was to upset us.”

Athos shrugged. “We have Grimaud, but we still don’t know for sure who his masters were.”

“Gaston.”

“Gaston, yes, but alone? Working with others? If so, whom? He’s never seemed capable of this kind of – intricacy, before.”

“Not like him to try to undermine us,” Aramis agreed. “On the other hand, we’ve seen off three First Ministers in eight years, so maybe he’s wary of us.”

“Maybe. Get some sleep, Aramis. All of our problems will be waiting in the morning.”

Athos sent d’Artagnan to meet an incoming visitor to the palace and escort them in. “You’ll know when you see them,” he said vaguely, waving off d’Artagnan’s concerns. “Take Constance with you.”

“Helpful, thank you,” d’Artagnan muttered, but he obeyed, walking his horse through the streets to the gate with Constance beside him.

“No idea who we’re meeting?” Constance asked.

“Another noble for the party, I suppose. Has Lemay reached the palace yet?”

“Arrived yesterday. We’ve put it around that he’s checking up on the Dauphin, and Espoir’s keeping an ear out for any rumours we want to squash.”

“We couldn’t manage without you,” d’Artagnan told her. “Knowing that you’re helping out…”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “I couldn’t leave you poor boys alone. I think that’s the carriage we’re waiting for.”

“Hmm?” He was leaning in for a kiss, barely listening.

“It’s slowing. It’s stopping...d’Artagnan, turn around!”

“Tease,” he said with a smile, turning to hail the carriage driver. “To the palace?” he called.

“Aye!”

“It’s this way!” He turned to help Constance mount the horse.

The carriage door opened and a young boy all but fell down the steps. “Uncle d’Artagnan!”

“Julian…? Emmy!” He thrust the reins at Constance and hurried to the carriage door, scooping Julian up on the way.

“Hello, dear one,” Emmy said with a smile, reaching for his hand to squeeze it.

“I didn’t know you were coming in today. And you’ve brought the children.”

“Her majesty insisted. She tells me several of her ladies have children and she would hate to separate us.”

“She’s very kind,” d’Artagnan said distantly. “Emeline, may I introduce your sister in law? Constance, Emeline, and her children Julian and Margot.” Julian bowed. Margot seemed to be asleep, wedged in a corner, and d’Artagnan shook his head when Emmy went to wake her. “Let her sleep, we’ll be at the palace soon enough.”

“I’m so glad to meet you at last,” Constance said with a smile. “d’Artagnan, why don’t you take Julian on the horse with you, and I’ll ride with the ladies? We can have a little chat, I’ll tell her what to expect.”

“Yes, please!” Emmy agreed quickly. “I’m terrified I’ll say the wrong thing and get us all thrown out.”

“All right,” d’Artagnan agreed, impressed at her quick thinking. Having Emmy know what she was walking into was only fair. “Come on, Julian. You can sit in front and I’ll show you where we’re going.”

He handed Constance into the carriage, swept Julian up onto his horse’s back, and made sure the driver knew to stay close before heading through the streets towards the palace.

Anne couldn’t see them straight away, but she’d left orders. Footmen took their luggage and a maid led them to a small suite in Anne’s household. Emmy took it in with wide eyes. “This is all for us?”

“You must have had rooms like this at home. Probably better?” Constance was distracted watching the maids set up; she knew one of them, but the other was a stranger and she didn’t want anything too delicate being said.

“Mmm,” Emmy said noncommittally.

The strange maid vanished while the other dropped a curtesy. “I’ll be your maid while you’re here, miss.”

“Oh! Well, thank you...”

“Agnes,” Constance said when Emmy faltered. “You’re in very safe hands. Agnes helped me out many times when I lived here.”

“Thank you, Agnes.”

“Why don’t you take the children for a quick look around, Agnes?” Constance suggested. “We don’t want them to get lost or end up somewhere they shouldn’t.”

“That’s a good idea,” Emmy agreed. “I can set things up here.”

“Make sure they know where the kitchen is,” Constance said firmly, ushering them out. “Just so they don’t go there by accident looking for pastries. And send in that husband of mine, he can help us set up.”

Agnes nodded, leading the children out, and d’Artagnan knocked and came in a moment later. “Nice rooms,” he noted, looking around.

“Make yourself useful.” Constance pointed to the chests and other luggage.

d’Artagnan obligingly picked up the nearest one. “How much has Constance been able to tell you?”

“Most of it, I think. You’re recruiting me into your game of spies?”

“Accidentally, and not a game. Espoir was deliberate, you’re accidental. What did you pack in this, rocks?”

“Especially for you.” She sat down at the small table. “Is the king really dying?”

“Soon, Lemay thinks. Months at best,” Constance said sadly.

“You won’t have to go near him,” d’Artagnan assured her. “The Queen is very careful about it. She doesn’t have attendants when she sees Louis, and he only has Espoir, to help ease the fits.”

Emmy took a deep breath, sitting upright. “How can I help?”


	19. Chapter 19

“Emmy’s going to quietly talk to as many of the maids and ladies as she can, see if she can find out who we can trust.” d’Artagnan slumped against Athos’ desk. “She probably can’t get near the nobles, but she’ll be mingling with any of their ladies, so hopefully…”

“Anything we can get will help,” Athos said, flipping through parchment. “Treville has vetted a few of the nobles and is sure of them, but there’s little he can do. Louis is increasingly erratic and Treville spends most of his time managing him.”

“Lemay can’t help?”

“Not without drugging him into immobility, and Louis refuses most of the time.”

“So might I,” d’Artagnan murmured. “Have we considered the other option?”

“Other?”

“Gaston is our problem.”

Athos shook his head briefly. “Gaston is not leading this. It’s not in his nature. He’s a figurehead, nothing more, and we need to know who is behind it.”

“Still, a rebellion without a figurehead isn’t usually a rebellion for very long.”

Athos closed his eyes briefly as he realised what d’Artagnan was saying. “We are not _murdering_ the Duc d'Orleans.”

“Assassinating, surely?”

“That’s the part you’re worried about?”

“Gaston is a threat to the crown. We serve the crown.”

“He’s not a threat to the crown,” Athos corrected him sharply. “Just to Louis.”

“Same thing, right now.”

“We’re not assassins, d’Artagnan. If he attacks, we will respond. Until then, we restrict ourselves to figuring out his plan.”

“Let’s hope that’s enough,” d’Artagnan muttered, pushing away from the desk. “I have a patrol at the palace.”

“Do not approach Gaston,” Athos said warningly.

“Of course not, Captain. I have my orders.” d’Artagnan saluted without looking at him and left the room, almost bumping into Aramis on the way out.

“Something wrong?” Aramis asked, stepping back onto the balcony as Athos came out of the office.

He leaned on the railing, studying d’Artagnan as he mounted up. “When you returned to us,” he said slowly, “did you feel as though you didn’t know us?”

Aramis was looking at him curiously, but he considered the question. “Only in scattered moments, here and there. You have habits you didn’t before, there are moments when I don’t know how to read your expressions – but in the main, no. You are as you always were. Why?”

He tilted his head towards the gate d’Artagnan had just rode through. “A stranger just stood in my office.”

Aramis considered. “Well, you know, he went to war.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Come on. I need to check on Elodie and the others, and you can do with a couple of hours away from here. You can tell Uncle Aramis about it on the way.” 

d’Artagnan veered off the main street and down an alley without looking around. His patrol wasn’t due to start for a while, but of course Athos didn’t know that. He wasn’t paying attention to anything relating to his position, after all, leaving it all for d’Artagnan.

“He didn’t go for it.” He swung down off his horse, kicking some rubbish aside irritably.

“I told you he wouldn’t. Do you want me to try?”

“I told you that if you went near him I’d slit your throat.” He considered for a moment, one hand pressed to his mouth. “I’ll approach the queen.”

“The queen is not going to want anything to do with me.”

“Which is why I’ll approach her, not you. Gaston is a risk to her, after all, and to her son. She’ll see sense.”

“And the king?”

“Not your concern,” d’Artagnan said sharply. “The only reason I haven’t run you out of Paris is because we need someone with your skills, whether Athos can see it or not.”

“How brave of you, to go ahead without his permission. Such a change from the boy I used to know.”

d’Artagnan’s face twisted in something that might have been a smile. “Well, that boy went to war. Where will I find you?”

“I’ll be around.”

“Aren’t you always.” He mounted up and kept going towards the palace.

Athos would understand, eventually. d’Artagnan was sure of that.

Porthos trailed along with Athos and Aramis. He was restless, tired of the slow pace of their investigations and wanting action, and though he didn’t expect to get any here it was at least better than sitting around in the garrison.

The streets of the Court were still busy, but not nearly as busy as they should have been. Porthos frowned, looking around. Quiet Court streets meant that something was coming, something Paris’ lowest people had sensed.

Aramis hadn’t noticed the quiet streets, hadn’t noticed Porthos’ worry, just headed for the building the ladies were sheltering in. Although the point had been for him to talk to Athos, they’d barely exchanged two words as they walked. Porthos sighed. He wasn’t sure what was wrong there, either. They’d been recovering from the four years apart, but something was happening between them.

As soon as they reached the house Aramis was dragged upstairs. Elodie was ill, Sylvie informed them. Athos immediately offered to accompany her to buy whatever was needed, leaving Porthos to help however he could.

Aramis called him in after a while to help build a fire in Elodie’s room. She was huddling in a chair, shivering, and he made sure to stay out of her way as he got the fire going and set some water to heat on it.

By the time Sylvie and Athos returned, Elodie was sleeping more peacefully and Aramis and Porthos had almost finished clearing up. “Your usual good timing, then,” Porthos said, shoving a bundle of bedsheets at him.

“It’s difficult to find what we need in the city,” Athos said, accepting them with a frown. “What are we doing with these?”

“Burning them. We’ll get replacements brought over.”

“We have replacements,” Sylvie said from where she was fussing over Elodie. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Aramis?” Athos asked.

“I’m quite well,” Aramis assured him. “At least, not any worse off than Elodie is. She will need some time to recover, but I believe she’s past the danger point.”

“D’you need us to stay?” Porthos asked Sylvie.

“No. We can manage. The other ladies will be back soon.”

“Good. The king seems to have given up on you, but it’s best to keep your heads down anyway.”

“We know. Don’t worry.” She smiled gratefully at Aramis.

“I’ll come to check on you as soon as I can,” he promised, drying his hands before twitching Elodie’s blanket up and brushing one finger over the baby’s cheek. “Keep yourselves safe until then.”

“We’ll do our best,” Sylvie promised. “Thank you. All of you.”

Porthos tipped his hat, following Athos out of the room. They’d need to take care of Aramis now. At least he felt a little less restless.

Brujon kept looking at him oddly. d’Artagnan wondered vaguely if his future had changed, but he didn’t have time to worry about it now. He just made sure that Brujon didn’t have a chance to get near him.

The Queen was keeping herself mostly isolated, but d’Artagnan made sure he was nearby. Eventually she emerged from her rooms with Emmy and another of her ladies, heading for a walk in the gardens. d’Artagnan was waiting by the door.

“d’Artagnan,” she said in surprise. “Is anything wrong?”

He bowed quickly. “No, your majesty. I just hoped for a word in private.”

Anne gestured and the ladies fell back a few steps. “Walk with me.”

“Of course.” He fell into step next to her, concentrating on not influencing her. He still wasn’t sure how the new Ability worked; the promised practise with Porthos had never happened.

Anne let him walk in silence for a couple of minutes. “Is it about Louis?” she asked finally.

“Sort of,” d’Artagnan said warily. Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.

“Say your piece, d’Artagnan. I must return to him soon.”

“Your majesty,” he began, still feeling his way, “you know that Aramis, and we, are...aware.”

“I assumed you would be,” she said steadily.

He nodded. “There are factions, in the city and probably elsewhere, who are...not happy to think that the regency may pass to you.”

“I expected as much,” she said, looking away from him, across the gardens. “Some people cannot let go of the fact that I was born in another land.”

d’Artagnan nodded. “We have– that is, we think…”

“Out with it,” she said impatiently. “Whatever it is, it’s no worse than I have thought to myself.”

“We have no definitive evidence,” he said carefully. “But we think that Gaston is involved. Perhaps as a figurehead, or maybe he’s leading it.”

She was silent for several minutes. d’Artagnan kept pace, letting her think.

“It’s what Louis called him back for, of course,” she said finally. “Because he does not trust me.”

“You’re the mother of the Dauphin. The regency should be yours.”

“Or you think I’ll be easier to manage than Gaston,” she said shrewdly.

“Our loyalty lies with the Crown, your majesty.”

“Yes, of course,” she muttered.

“Your majesty,” he began, very carefully. “If something were to happen to the Duc…”

He trailed off deliberately, and she said quickly “Do you know of anything? A plot against him?”

“There are always plots. But I haven’t heard anything specific. Still, if there were…”

“He’s still a Son of France. I would expect the Musketeers to be just as devoted to protecting him as they are my husband or myself.”

“Of course.”

She paused, touching a flower absently. “Things are likely to be very busy and confusing soon.”

“We’re making our best plans. We’ll try to be sure nothing slips through the cracks.”

“Yes, that would be a shame,” she agreed distantly. “The death of a monarch hides so many other sins.”

d’Artagnan nodded. “I don’t remember the last king’s death, but I imagine that’s so.”

She shifted, stepping away from the bush. “I must go and sit with my husband. Thank you for your company, d’Artagnan. I will be wary of my brother in law.”

“You can trust Emmy in those matters, your majesty,” d’Artagnan said, stepping aside as she turned. “Her judgement is good.”

“I have found it so,” she agreed. “Go along, d’Artagnan. I’m sure you’re missed somewhere.”

He bowed, caught Emmy’s eye for a second and turned to leave. The plan could go ahead.

Aramis was well on his way to drunk. Porthos was keeping an eye on the gate; when d’Artagnan came in he waved him over.

“What’s going on?” d’Artagnan asked, passing his reins to one of the boys.

“We’re celebrating!” Aramis said, throwing an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders.

“Elodie was ill, but she’s on the mend,” Porthos explained, passing him the bottle. “Drink up, lad. We haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been busy,” he said vaguely. “Elodie’s healthy?”

“Getting there. Everything all right?”

“Yes.” He flashed a quick smile, shrugging out from under Aramis’ arm as he reached for the bottle. “Just visiting with Emmy. Tell me about Elodie. Is Aramis all right?”

“He’s celebrating.”

“I can see that.”

Porthos shrugged. “You know Aramis when something like this happens. He’ll be fine.” He eyed d’Artagnan. “Something wrong?”

“...It’ll keep. Tell me about Elodie.”

“d’Artagnan…”

“It’ll keep,” he said firmly. “Talk about something else. We’ll worry about my thing tomorrow.”

Porthos gave in, knowing that d’Artagnan wouldn’t, and told him about the visit. d’Artagnan listened, nodded, and asked the right questions at the right spots, but he was off, somehow. Porthos couldn’t put his finger on it.

They dragged Aramis out to eat, to try to soak up some of the alcohol. Athos joined them, and it should have been like old times, all of them getting drunk together, mocking and teasing. But it felt uncomfortably as though d’Artagnan was playing a role, and Porthos was almost sure Athos knew it too.

d’Artagnan left early, citing the need to get back to Constance, and he undertook to get Aramis back to the garrison. Aramis was mostly merry and pliable, so Porthos took him up on the offer, waiting until they were gone to move around so he was sitting beside Athos.

“You see it too?” Athos said before he could.

Porthos blew out a breath. “Wasn’t sure you did.”

“He’s not very subtle.”

“At least we know he’s not just making us not notice.”

Athos nodded, lifting his tankard. Talking around the rim, he murmured “He suggested assassination to me today.”

“Of who?”

Athos considered. “The brother.”

Porthos absorbed that. “Might help,” he muttered. “But it ain’t him. Have you talked to him?”

“He's been avoiding me. Have you?”

“He refused. Said it’d wait. I didn’t know what I was asking about, exactly.”

Athos sighed. “Maybe he’ll talk to Aramis tomorrow.”

“Let’s hope so. We can’t exactly force him if he decides not to.”

Athos saluted with his tankard, eyes dark. “Then we’ll have to think of another way to stop him.”


	20. Chapter 20

“You alright?”

d’Artagnan looked up from the food he mostly hadn’t been eating. “Hmm?”

Constance nodded at his plate. “I know it’s not great, but it’s not that bad.”

“Oh. No, it’s fine. I’m just thinking. Planning the day.” He forced a smile. “Lots to do.”

“You haven’t been yourself lately. Is anything wrong?”

“Just—” He waved vaguely at the wall. “The whole thing. The war. I can’t wait for it to be over.”

She started to reach for him; he pulled back, shaking his head. “Better not, if you don’t mind.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just a hard night. I’ll be fine later.” He stood. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“All right,” she agreed, watching him go.

Porthos was out in the yard, shouting at some of the cadets. He abandoned them as d’Artagnan walked by, draping an arm around the younger man’s shoulders. “Let’s talk, you and me.”

d’Artagnan shrugged him off but didn’t try to get away other than that. “I’m busy.”

“Yep, you’re busy talking to me. Or would you rather one of the others? Athos or Aramis?”

d’Artagnan shuddered, trying to hide it. “No.”

“Me it is, then. Where are we going?”

“One place is much like another.”

“Spent too much time with Athos,” Porthos muttered.

d’Artagnan didn’t smile. “Somewhere we won’t be overheard. You’re likely to be loud, and probably violent.” 

“Sounds like a fun time. I know somewhere.”

d’Artagnan followed him to an empty and unused hostler’s yard. It hadn’t yet been found by the hordes of refugees in the city. Porthos leaned against a wall, waiting expectantly.

“I’ve been– You have to let me tell you all of it,” d’Artagnan warned him.

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve been talking to Milady,” d’Artagnan said carefully.

Porthos was silent for a full ten heartbeats. “Back in Paris again, is she? Bad penny, that one.”

“Mmm.” d’Artagnan couldn’t hide his relief.

“Why are you talking to her?”

“Because we have a problem that’s suited to her – skills.”

Porthos straightened. “You’re hiring her?”

“Sort of. Yes. I tried to talk to Athos, but he wouldn’t _listen.”_

Porthos took a deep breath. “What are you hiring her for?”

“Gaston.” Porthos shook his head, and d’Artagnan added “If Gaston is made regent the whole country will suffer. If we can take him out, the coup won’t happen and Anne will be regent instead. She’ll be able to make peace with Philip.”

“You think people’ll settle for that? The Spanish Princess dealing with her brother the Spanish King?”

“The people want peace, Porthos!” Distantly he knew he was shouting. He didn’t care. “They _yearn_ for it. It’s all they think about. All this stupid– Four years, and _nothing_ has _changed!”_

He couldn’t tell what Porthos was thinking, and his face wasn’t changing. “Alright. I understand. When is Milady going to do it?”

d’Artagnan took a breath, trying to remember not to shout at Porthos. None of this was his fault. “It’s not that kind of plan.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Anne knows. Sort of. She knows there’s a plan.”

“But not what it is, who’s in it…?”

“Deniability.”

“Good. Okay.” He nodded firmly. “Athos gave me a mission out of town this morning. You’re coming with me. We can work all of this out on the way.”

d’Artagnan nodded, too tired to fight any more, and followed him back towards the garrison.

Porthos put d’Artagnan on his horse and sent him out of town, promising to catch up as soon as he’d packed. Once d’Artagnan was out of sight, Porthos went looking for Aramis and found him in the armoury, checking over the weapons.

“I may need to do some teaching,” he said when Porthos came in. “The cadets are _not_ good at weapons maintenance.”

“I think we’ve been concentrating on fighting skills,” Porthos said vaguely. “Listen, d’Artagnan and me are leaving the city for a bit.”

Aramis set aside the musket he was holding. “Problems?”

“I’m hoping it’s just the city, the people here. We’ll head in the direction of Pinon. Plenty of open space out that way. If we can find him some quiet, maybe he can reset and last a bit longer.”

“There’s that lake, off the main road. We stopped at it last time. That might help.”

He nodded. “I remember. Let Athos know, will you? We should be back tomorrow, or the day after, maybe.”

“The Dauphin’s party is four days from now.”

“We’ll definitely be back by then,” he promised.

“Do you want me to come? Maybe I could help.”

Porthos shook his head. “No. There’s something else going on with him, and I think I can get it out of him once he’s calmer.”

“Alright. I’ll try to keep Athos occupied.”

“Do. And keep watching Louis. We don’t know for sure when Gaston’s going to attack.”

Aramis eyed him, but didn’t question it. Porthos grabbed the supplies they’d need for a couple of days and rode after d’Artagnan. With any luck they could get this sorted out before anything happened. He wasn’t sure how Athos was going to take this, but it would be infinitely better if Milady didn’t complete her mission.

“Aramis!” Athos leaned over the railing, scanning the courtyard. “Where are the others?”

“I assume you mean Porthos and d’Artagnan?” Aramis ambled up the stairs.

“Who else?” Athos said blankly.

“Athos, my dear friend and leader,” Aramis leaned against the railing, smiling gently, “you are captain of a garrison of cadets. I assume you know who some of them are?”

Athos scowled. “Where are Porthos and d’Artagnan, Aramis?”

“Porthos took him out of the city. He’s having some trouble, apparently. Porthos is hoping that a night away will help him settle. Stop panicking, Athos, he’s fine. What did you want them for?”

“We’ve been called to the palace. Some nobles are arriving and we’re to be there when they’re presented to the Dauphin. Find me a couple of cadets and I’ll go.”

_“We’ll_ go,” Aramis corrected him. “My banishment is lifted, after all.”

“And you think that putting yourself that close to the Dauphin will go down well with Louis?”

“I’ll stay on the door. I’d rather you didn’t go out with just cadets right now.”

“Musketeer cadets.”

“Still cadets. Come on, Athos, I’ll just follow you.”

“Remind me, why did Treville never banish you to a monastery?”

Aramis laughed, draping an arm around Athos’ shoulders. “Because I am needed, Athos. No one does it like I do.”

“That is very literally true.”

“You couldn’t manage without me.”

He was silent for a moment before shrugging Aramis off. “Not quite so true, but I take your point. Find two cadets. We’ll keep one each.”

“Yes, sir.” He headed back down to the yard, pointing at two random cadets and shouting for horses.

As promised, he stayed on the door to the reception room with Octave while Athos and Césaire stood on either side of the dias. Aramis didn’t recognise most of the nobles attending, but Treville was keeping an eye on them, so he assumed that they’d been vetted. Emeline was circulating, carrying messages from Anne to various ladies and chatting quietly; Espoir was standing at Louis’ shoulder, occasionally fetching him a drink or a snack. Professor Lemay was nearby as well, chatting with the young Dauphin.

Aramis kept himself from entering the room through force of will. He could see snatches of the boy, dressed to the nines in lace and a high curly wig, and he told himself that was enough.

The speeches started after a while. The Dauphin seemed to have learned already that he should sit quietly and listen; Louis was mostly bored, and Anne was enduring, mouth tight and angry.

The shot came from nowhere. Aramis was already moving, shouting at Octave to stay where he was. Treville, Athos, and Césaire were on the dias, sweeping the royal family away, ushering the ladies and valets after them.

Aramis had almost reached them when there was another shot and Athos fell, tumbling into Louis and bringing him down as well.


	21. Chapter 21

“You know, I had quite a good life,” Espoir mused. “Quiet, mostly. Farming, hunting...the tavern...the farmgirls…”

“Chased off by your own headman.”

“Granted, that wasn’t the highlight of my life, but it led to a job here in the palace.”

“Risking your life all the time.”

“No more than any of you do.”

“Mmm…”

“Shush, it’s easier to handle it if I lie to myself just a bit.”

Aramis smiled faintly. “I suppose it would be, yes.”

“Feeling better?”

“Shush, if Athos hears you—”

“I’m quite able to hear,” Athos said sharply. “Aramis?”

“I’m fine,” Aramis assured him. “Would you please go to sleep? We have things handled.”

Espoir went to check his bandage, since he was clearly awake anyway. “The bleeding has stopped,” he reported. “Are you sure we shouldn’t try to get the bullet out? It’s just sitting there in his arm.”

“It’s not necessary,” Athos told him. “Just make sure that—”

Treville strode into the room. “What’s going on?”

“Louis is sleeping,” Aramis reported. “He cracked a rib when Athos fell. I’ve taken care of it. There were no other injuries beyond some bruises and panic. Lemay has taken care of them.”

“And you?” he demanded of Athos.

“The bullet struck my arm—”

“And lodged there,” Espoir muttered, moving to clear away the lengths of cloth they’d used to stop the bleeding.

“I’ll recover,” Athos said firmly, ignoring him. 

“Professor Lemay wants to see you.”

“Put him off. I haven’t slept yet.”

Treville nodded wearily. “The gunman?”

“The cadets brought someone in,” Aramis said. “We haven’t gone to look yet.”

“Where are Porthos and d’Artagnan?”

“Out of the city,” Athos said.

“On the way,” Espoir said over him, and then blinked. “Um. Pardon me. I’m not sure why I said that.”

Aramis closed his eyes briefly. “They’re out of the city, but I’m sure they’ll be back soon, Minister. Octave is waiting at the gates to direct them here.”

“Not gone to meet them?”

“We’re not quite sure where they are,” Athos admitted. 

“It’s not really a mission in the technical sense,” Aramis added.

“You know, I thought that one of the benefits of being Minister would be that I wouldn’t have to deal with you lot anymore,” Treville muttered. “Aramis, are you able?”

“Fine and fit, Minister.”

“Good. Go and check this suspect. Espoir, the king will be waking. Athos – get some sleep, for god’s sake.”

Athos pushed to his feet, meeting Treville’s gaze. “We are unharmed.”

“Mostly,” Espoir muttered.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan, I appreciate your concern for my men,” Treville snapped, “but I assure you that they and I both know their limits. Please go and tend to your master.”

Aramis caught Espoir’s eye, shaking his head. “Louis will be worried about the Dauphin. Go and check on him – actually put your eyes on him, don’t take a report from someone else – and you can report when Louis wakes up.”

“Thank you for your help here,” Athos added, waving vaguely at the medical supplies.

“Hmm. I’m starting to think you lot need more looking after than the king does.” He turned back to Aramis. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I shall,” Aramis promised.

“Good.” Espoir nodded, letting himself out of the little anteroom and heading for the king’s quarters.

Emeline was coming the other way and he nodded politely. They’d spoken a couple of times, but he’d been trying to keep his distance, well aware that he was tending a contagious master. “How is the queen?”

“Shaken, but unharmed. I was just looking for someone to inform the king when he wakes.”

“I’ll pass that on.” He glanced back towards the anteroom. “Still glad you took the job?”

“It is rather more exciting than I expected,” she admitted. “You?”

“It’s better than prison.”

She smiled a little. “I suppose it is, at that. Stay safe, Espoir.”

“Take care of the children, Emeline.”

Porthos put d’Artagnan into the lake, camped them overnight, and sent him back for another swim the next morning. He wasn’t sure if the repeated swims would have any extra effect, since they weren’t meeting anything in between, but d’Artagnan didn’t object and they weren’t in a rush back.

He didn’t bother to hurry them along. Although he knew d’Artagnan could shake off the effects of the swim, it would defeat the purpose of it, and they weren’t particularly needed in the city. He was willing to wait while d’Artagnan rested.

At least, that was the plan until d’Artagnan sat bolt upright, turned towards Paris and said calmly, “Athos has been shot. We should go.”

Porthos blinked once or twice, moving to saddle the horses. “Shot dead?”

“No. A mild injury. But he’s in the palace.”

“What? Is anyone else hurt?”

“Not seriously.” d’Artagnan gathered their sleeping rolls, moving with the smoothness he usually showed just after swimming. “Someone shot at Louis. Or Anne, I’m not – it’s all pretty confused and I can’t reach very well from here.”

“That’s enough for now,” Porthos agreed, stuffing the rest of his belongings into a sack. “You good to ride back?”

“Fine,” d’Artagnan assured him, finishing the packing. “We’re a couple of hours away, anyway. Plenty of time.”

“You can stay here if you want to. Follow me back.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine, Porthos. Let’s go. If this is Gaston making his move, we need to be there.”

They were about half a day from Paris. Porthos let d’Artagnan set the pace, watching him as well as he could while they rode. d’Artagnan was mostly focused on Paris, only vaguely paying attention to the road, but every time Porthos tried to slow them down d’Artagnan snapped at him, insisting he was fine and they should keep going.

Half an hour out of the city Porthos insisted they stop and eat. “You’re telling me they’re not in danger, but we don’t know what’s going to happen once we get in there. Might be a while before we can eat again.”

“On the way,” d’Artagnan murmured, shaking his head.

“Yeah. We’re nearly there.” Porthos shoved a waterskin at him. “Drink some of this.”

d’Artagnan did, and he took some of the bread and meat Porthos fished out of a saddlebag. Porthos watched until he was sure d’Artagnan was really eating it. “How’re they doing?”

“Athos is sleeping. Aramis, soon, I think. He had to Heal a couple of injuries. They don’t seem to think that they’re in danger.”

“That’s something, I suppose,” Porthos muttered. “Anyone killed?”

“No. Louis hurt something, but he’s all right now. No one else is hurt. Scared, but not injured.”

“‘Least the palace will be locked down. If Gaston’s men are there, we’ll have a chance to find them. Ready to get going again?”

“Yes.” d’Artagnan passed back the waterskin, nudging his horse into a trot.

Octave was waiting at the gate. Porthos and d’Artagnan dismounted, walking their horses towards the palace while he rapidly filled them in.

“You’ve caught the shooter?” Porthos asked, passing him the reins as they reached the gate.

“We caught someone. He hadn’t been questioned when I left to meet you.”

“Good starting point. Take the horses back to the garrison and then come back. I assume everyone’s here?”

“More or less, yes, I think.”

“Good. Where’s Athos?”

He gestured inside. “I’ll show you. This way.”

“He’s nothing but a mercenary,” Aramis announced, dropping his sword and gloves on a table and moving to wash his hands. “He doesn’t know who hired him. It was all done through an intermediary who isn’t in the city.”

“You believe him?” Athos asked.

“I do.” Aramis turned to study him. Sitting on the side of the bed, Athos certainly looked better. “How are you feeling?”

Athos tossed something to him. Aramis caught it neatly, studying the slightly flattened bullet.

“We could make you a vest with them,” d’Artagnan suggested. Sprawled in a chair in a dark corner, Aramis had almost missed seeing him at first.

“You’re back. Feeling better?”

“I am. And I might have a lead on who hired your man. But I should go alone.”

“Is that wise?”

“Probably not,” he said with a sigh. “But I can deal with it.”

“Where’s Porthos?” Aramis asked, glancing around.

“I sent him to check the gardens for signs of forced entry,” Athos told him, rising to his feet.

“The gardens have been checked.”

“I wanted to be sure.”

“Porthos was annoying him,” d’Artagnan filled in.

Athos sighed, reaching for his hat. “Aramis, go with d’Artagnan.”

d’Artagnan frowned. “I told you, it’s better if I go alone.”

“I heard you. And I’ve assigned Aramis to go with you.”

d’Artagnan glanced at Aramis, who raised both hands. “I have my orders.”

“It really needs to just be me.”

“Why?” Athos asked evenly.

d’Artagnan sighed. “Because I think the person who hired him was probably Milady. And I don’t want you anywhere near her.”

Athos was silent for several heartbeats. “You’ve been talking to her.”

“Yes.”

“This was your idea.”

“No,” d’Artagnan said firmly.

Athos gestured irritably. “Not _this._ Gaston. That was your plan, wasn’t it?”

d’Artagnan nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Aramis cleared his throat. “I’m a little lost.”

“d’Artagnan is of the opinion that things would be much easier if Gaston were not an issue.” Athos spoke without looking away from d’Artagnan. “Apparently, despite my orders, he has taken steps towards that goal.”

“By hiring Milady,” Aramis said slowly. “d’Artagnan?”

“By hiring Milady,” he confirmed quietly.

“How did you find her?”

“She found me. She’s out of money. Offered her services.”

“And you accepted.” Something was wrong here, and he wasn’t sure he could get it out of d’Artagnan with Athos looming. “Because you trust her so deeply. And treason doesn’t matter.”

“He’s not the king,” d’Artagnan pointed out. “But no. I don’t trust her. I just need her.”

“Why? Don’t look at Athos, look at me. Make me understand.”

“Not literally,” Athos snapped, “keep your Ability to yourself.”

“Athos, shut up,” Aramis said firmly. “d’Artagnan?”

d’Artagnan started and stopped a couple of times before finally managing “The war needs to be over. It has to end, Aramis. Anne will negotiate with Phillip when she’s regent. She’s already planning it.”

Aramis studied him for a long moment. “You’re mirroring.”

“I– I think I was, yes. I’m not now. Not for a while, at least.”

“The refugees?”

“Probably.”

“Any time you’re ready,” Athos said with exaggerated politeness.

Aramis sighed, turning away from d’Artagnan. “Empathy problem. Too many people in the city, desperate for the war to end. With the relatively traumatic way d’Artagnan’s Ability was restored, he was less able to guard against it than he normally would, and he – lost track of his own feelings in theirs.”

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan said. “I believe what I believe, but I would never have moved against Gaston or even spoken to Milady if I were completely myself.”

“Can you guarantee that you will remain yourself?”

He shrugged helplessly. “I know what to watch for now, but…”

“We can all watch,” Aramis said briskly. “Let’s go and find Milady and make sure there are no more attempts in progress, for now.”

d’Artagnan hesitated, watching Athos. “Athos…”

“You have your assignment.” Athos wasn’t looking at him. “Go.”


End file.
